In Our Darkest Hour
by procrastin8or951
Summary: Post Grave Danger, Nick isn't dealing as well as we hoped. Not to mention the serial killer who just may be the one the team is unable to catch. Nickcentric. Review please!
1. Chapter 1

Quiet voices penetrated his dark, warm blanket of sleep. Nick could hear them, but not what they said, only the vague sounds infiltrating his consciousness. He wasn't ready to try to understand what words meant.

One voice, a female voice, which spoke for a short time, was foreign. Her voice was kind, but to him it sounded distressing. Who was she and why was she so close to him?

A low, rumbling voice responded, speaking for a few moments. He knew this sound, this voice was one he heard often. It spoke in an unfamiliar tone, one he rarely heard from this voice; it sounded stressed, anxious.

Unbidden, the words he had last heard this voice speak floated into his mind. "_Lay still. Lay still. It's okay. It's okay…"_

_Little legs, as thin as hairs, climbing all over him…Burning, pinching as little pieces of flesh are torn away…A hand on his chest, trapping him there, in that hell…_

Nick woke with a start. "No! No no no no!" He raised an arm, trying to brush off the thousands of ants that were crawling all over him, eating him alive, as he struggled to sit up.

"Nick! It's okay, it's okay." A hand caught his, preventing him from moving. Another hand gently pushed on his shoulder, holding him back. "You're okay now. No ants, see? It's okay now."

Nick blinked and stared at the blurry form of Warrick leaning over him. He shrunk away. _Too close, too close_…

Warrick sat back, seeming to understand. "Okay, you're okay." He didn't let go of Nick's hand, something Nick was grateful for. He concentrated on breathing. When he felt he had gotten that under control, he attempted to speak.

"What-?" Nick couldn't formulate the questions he needed to ask, had to know the answers to. A white fog was filling his mind, wrapping itself around his words, strangling them until they vanished and he was left with only a single word to describe his fear and confusion. His eyes begged Warrick to understand anyway, to tell him what was happening.

"It's okay, man. You're in the hospital. You've been here for two days. The doctor sedated you, to let your system recover a bit," Warrick explained in the same soothing voice.

Nick nodded. With great effort, he focused only on Warrick, pushing away the haunting memories and clinging to that familiar voice after so many hours of silence.

"That's it. Just lie still. You're okay, Nicky. Everybody's gonna be real happy that you finally graced us with your presence," Warrick said, grinning a little. "They had to go back to work, but they've been here almost the whole time. How do you feel, now?"

Nick waited for a moment, finally saying the first word that pulled through the fog in his brain. "Tired."

"Two days' rest wasn't enough, huh?" Warrick smiled a little, and squeezed his hand. "Okay, man, get your beauty sleep."

Nick smiled a little, then closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall back under that warm blanket of sleep.

* * *

Warrick sighed tiredly and rubbed his eyes. He had been in the same uncomfortable hospital chair next to Nick's bed for two days now, ever since they brought him into the ER.

_The gurney crashed through the doors to the emergency room as the paramedics ran in, calling out terms to the doctors. _

_"BP 150 over 90!"_

_"Pulse is 160!"_

_The continued shouts of numbers and medications barely registered with Warrick, as he focused solely on his best friend lying on a bed in the middle of the emergency room. Nick, though considerably weakened, clung to his hand with incredible force and insistence. _

_"Sir. Sir! You need to leave." A nurse pulled on Warrick's free arm, attempting to detach him. He jerked his arm away and turned back to Nick. _

_"Sir! You can't be in here. You need to leave," the nurse persisted, tugging Warrick's hand from Nick's grasp and pushing Warrick toward the door. _

_"No!" Nick gasped, beginning to thrash about, preventing the doctors from giving him any of the much-needed medication. _

_"Nick!" Warrick shoved past the nurse and grasped Nick's hand again. "It's okay, buddy. It's okay, it's okay. Lay still. It's okay."_

Now, after checking that the other CSI was asleep, Warrick stepped out into the hall and flipped open his phone. He punched a few buttons and waited for his supervisor to pick up.

"Grissom," Grissom's calm voice stated.

"Gris, he woke up."

"How is he?"

"A bit out of it. He didn't stay awake very long. But…he thought he was still there, man. He thought he was still in that damned box…"

"That's to be expected, Warrick. After a trauma, the mind often replays events in an attempt to deal with them." Grissom sounded understanding, yet detached.

"I know, Gris, but…" Warrick trailed off, looking back into the room at Nick's sleeping form. He would never be able to describe the look of intense fear and desperation in Nick's eyes.

"Warrick, why don't you go home? You need to get some sleep. Catherine is on her way to the hospital, she'll stay with Nick."

Warrick nodded tiredly, then stopped as he realized that Grissom couldn't see him. "Yeah. Okay."

"Warrick?"

"Yeah?"

"He's going to be okay."

* * *

Nick scowled at the bandages covering his arms. He felt like a mummy, wrapped as he was in white gauze. They had taken him off of most of the medications he had been on, leaving him a bit more aware than he would have liked.

He wanted to get out of the freaking hospital and go home. He'd already been here for three days. And yes, he was unconscious for two of them, but that didn't mean he hadn't been here for three days. He was tired, achy, and just generally uncomfortable. His skin burned and itched from the thousands of bites he had sustained. His wrist was fractured and his shoulder dislocated from hitting the ground when the team pulled him out of the hole. He wished he was home in his own bed, or on his own couch, instead of in this stupid, weird-smelling room.

The doctor told him he could go home in a couple days, when she was sure the bites weren't getting infected. At this statement, he had glared at the bags of liquid that were draining into his body through the IV in his hand. The doctor, picking up on this, had said, "We are giving you antibiotics to combat possible infections. I just want to be sure. A few more days can't hurt."

Oh, but they could. He didn't want to lie on his back anymore. God only knew he had had enough of that. But thanks to the many machines they had him attached to, he couldn't lay any other way.

But the very worst part was the boredom. Catherine had brought him a couple of books to read, but he had finished those hours ago. The rest of the team had gone back to the lab, though, leaving him alone. His parents had left that morning, because they needed to return to work. Now he was left alone, with nothing to do. And with nothing to occupy his mind, he felt it drifting back toward the darkness of sleep, towards the things he was trying not to remember…

_"Hi CSI guy…"_

Nick jerked awake again, knocking loose one of the machines which promptly began to bleep, as he looked around, looking for some assurance that he was safe. A bland hospital room stared back at him. _You imagined it. It didn't happen. Stop thinking about it!_ he berated himself. He was alone; at least until some employee of the hospital became aware that the little monitor next to his bed was thoroughly convinced he was dead.

He, however, knew different, as his heart currently felt as though it was trying to pound its way right out of his chest. _Stop it. Calm down. Now._ His breathing was rapid and irregular.

A nurse rushed in, having heard the machine raise the alarm. She stopped at the sight of Nick frowning contemptuously at the machine.

With a sigh, the nurse walked over and began to reattach the machine. "Mr. Stokes, what in heaven's name are you doing that's making these machines go off every ten minutes?"

"Nothing," Nick said sullenly. To his surprise, the nurse sat down in the chair next to his bed.

"If you were doing nothing, I wouldn't have been in here five times in the last hour. Mr. Stokes, are you having panic attacks?"

"Call me Nick, please," Nick said, attempting to avoid a question he didn't know how to answer. Or maybe he just didn't want to answer.

"All right. Nick, if you are having panic attacks, I need to know." The nurse eyed him suspiciously.

"I'm not having panic attacks. I just...sometimes think of things I don't want to think about." Nick looked down as he spoke, embarrassed at the admittance.

"Mmmm. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Nick. You went through a lot. I'm going to talk to the doctor and see if we can get you some medication to help with your anxiety, okay?" She stood to leave. "Try to sleep now, okay? It's after ten already."

Nick nodded noncommittally. The truth was, he wasn't able to sleep. He had to stay focused so his thoughts wouldn't drift…

He sighed loudly. He didn't want to be here. He began to glower at the TV, which was turned off. It deserved to be glared at, too. How dare it be turned off when he so desperately needed distraction?


	2. Chapter 2

Nick's initial thought upon arriving home for the first time since all of this started was _it's different_.

His house was distinctly different from the last time he saw it. _But what exactly is it that changed?_ There was the same comfortable furniture he had always had. The same books packed the shelves. The same DVDs were neatly aligned under the same TV. The book he had been reading, so long ago it seemed, the day before all this happened, was lying open, face down, on the coffee table. He had only intended to leave it like that for a couple minutes while he heated up some pasta, but his pager had gone off, forcing him to forget about the pasta, the book, the documentary he had wanted to watch. In fact, there was the bowl he was going to put the pasta into. He had put the container of pasta back in the refrigerator, but had forgotten the bowl. Maybe it was because he was hungry that he had not been aware of the other person at that pretend crime scene…

_Stop it! Don't think about it. It's not important._ He refocused his efforts to deduce what was different. But nothing looked out of place. Frustrated, he gave up, and walked further into his living room to sit on the couch.

Warrick, who had driven him home, sat down in the chair next to him. "Hey, man. You okay? You look distracted."

"I'm fine," Nick replied, tearing his gaze from the book on the coffee table to look at Warrick.

"Okay…Well, do you want something to eat?" Warrick drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

_Pasta…No! Stop it!_ "I'm not really hungry."

"Do you want to watch the game?" Warrick tried again.

Nick shook his head. "I don't really feel like watching TV."

"Then what do you want to do?"

"Nothing, man. I just want to get some sleep," Nick replied, feeling a little ridiculous saying it. He had spent four days in bed in the hospital. There was no way he should be tired, and yet he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his own bed and stay there for a week.

"Okay. Do you need help or anything?" Warrick gestured toward Nick's bandaged arms, assessing quickly that the sling holding his shoulder in place made some things a little difficult.

"Nah, it's okay. You, uh, don't have to stay, 'Rick," Nick said awkwardly. "I mean, you look like you need sleep more than I do."

Warrick shook his head a little. "No, I'll stay…"

"Really, Warrick. You don't have to. I'm just gonna be sleepin' anyway. Don't need any help with that," Nick insisted. "Go home and get some sleep before your shift."

"Well…" Warrick seemed to be considering.

"Go. Seriously. Get some sleep," Nick ordered.

With a few more feeble protests, Warrick was ushered out, and Nick was left alone. He returned to sit on the couch. He was as tired as he had said, but he was afraid to relax enough to let his mind wander. He decided to watch something and hope he drifted to sleep while listening to it.

He turned on the TV and scrolled through the list of shows his TiVo had recorded. Many sports shows, a few shows about birds, and there, a documentary about tombs.

Nick clicked the TV off, feeling a sense of panic rise in his chest. _Stop it. Stop it. Don't think about it. It'll go away_.

He focused only on breathing slowly and deeply until he no longer felt cold fingers of fear wrapping themselves around his heart.

Nick vaguely recalled having set that show to tape, as it had seemed interesting. When he was a kid, he had always been fascinated by the Egyptian pyramids. Now though, he could hardly imagine wanting to see something like that. With that thought, another hit him.

_It's the same, the house. It's not what's different. You are.

* * *

_

_Faint green glow, illuminating a small, closed space, the edges of his vision fading into darkness. The heavy weight of a loaded gun in his hand, the mechanic clicking as the magazine slid out. _

_Tap. Tap. Plastic against metal. _

_Aching hands pounding glass, while the desperate screams only he hears echo in his ears._

_The light…blinding light at his feet. That damned light…_

Nick couldn't breathe. The fan was off, and the walls were closing in on him. He struggled, feeling the tightening around his chest, the air being forced out of his lungs…

"Nick! Nick!" _Help me, I don't want to die, please God, help, don't let me die now!_

"Nick!" He could no longer move, paralyzed by fear and lack of oxygen.

"Nicky, it's okay. You're not there. You're okay. Open your eyes. Nick. Open your eyes." Who was that? Nick focused his remaining energy on following the orders.

The room spun around him, and Warrick's face came into focus. "Nick. You're okay, see? You're at home."

"I…can't….breathe," Nick gasped.

"Okay, buddy, it's okay. Lay still."

"_It's okay. It's okay. Lay still. Lay still_."

Nick pushed against whatever was holding him down, trapping him, frantically attempting to get out of the nightmare. _No no no no no!

* * *

_

After a few hours of sleep, Warrick decided to head over to Nick's house again. Truth be told, Warrick felt guilty for leaving Nick alone his first night back. But he had been insistent, and there was no denying Warrick's exhaustion.

As Warrick parked his car in the street, he noted that Nick's truck was in the drive. Warrick hoped he was getting some much-needed rest.

He walked towards the front door, deciding to knock quietly, in case Nick was asleep. But as he got closer to the house, he heard what sounded like a scream coming from inside.

Without a second thought, Warrick ran the last few steps to the door, quickly punched in the code he had seen Nick use countless times, unlocked the door with a key from under the mat, and burst through the door.

He found Nick in his bed, his body so tightly wrapped in the sheet he could hardly move. Nick was yelling something, and the pure terror in his voice struck Warrick hard.

Warrick put a hand on Nick's shoulder, trying to stop his struggling. "Nick! Nick!"

He shook Nick a little. He was talking, saying anything to make Nick hear him. "You're okay. Open your eyes."

Nick looked at him then, his brown eyes hazy and unfocused. "I…can't…breathe."

"Okay, buddy, it's okay. Lay still." Nick wasn't in any danger of not breathing. In fact, he was hyperventilating. Warrick knew he had to make Nick calm down and fast.

To his horror, Nick began to move violently once more, making every effort to free himself from his imagined prison.

"Nick! Nicky, listen to me. You're not there." Warrick pulled at the sheets, trying to give Nick some freedom. "It's okay, man. I got you."

Nick was still hyperventilating, but his thrashing was becoming much weaker, as though he was losing consciousness. "Nicky, can you hear me? Nick? Listen, man, okay? You gotta breathe a little slower. Take deep breaths. In. Out. Good. Keep going."

Nick stilled, finally. With great effort, he closed his eyes and focused on slowing his breathing to a normal speed.

Warrick gently untangled the sheets from around his friend and then tapped his shoulder. "Nicky, you okay now? Ya still with me? Nick?"

Nick moved a little bit and opened his eyes again to stare at Warrick. "What-?" he managed.

"You passed out, man. You were hyperventilating."

"Did I-? Oh, God, Warrick…what did I-?" Nick was trembling and his Texan accent was stronger than Warrick had ever heard it.

"It's okay. It's okay," Warrick said softly. He was quiet for a moment, then he spoke again. "I'm sorry, man."

Nick looked at him blankly. "Why?"

"I shouldn't have left you here alone," Warrick said, not meeting his eyes.

Nick sat up suddenly. He put a hand to his head and made a small, pained sound. Warrick grabbed his shoulder in an attempt to steady him.

Nick's hand dropped and he fixed Warrick with a determined gaze. "It's not your fault. I had a bad dream, is all. I'm fine. You don't need to apologize."

Warrick, taken aback by Nick's stubborn tone, nodded dumbly. Satisfied, Nick nodded.

The two of them sat for a long time. Warrick, scolded into silence, sneaked furtive glances at Nick, who looked as though he was fighting back a migraine. The two of them sat quietly for a long time. Finally, unable to stand the uncomfortable silence any longer, Nick spoke.

"Don't you have to go to the lab?"

"Nope. Got the day off," Warrick replied. Nick nodded in acceptance and fell silent again. Warrick took it upon himself to continue the discussion.

"What do you want to do, then?"

Nick shrugged, then said, "Anything, so long as we go somewhere."

"What do you suggest?"

"Something outside."


	3. Chapter 3

They ended up walking to a park near Nick's house. There really wasn't much else they could do outside, what with Nick's injuries.

Normally, Nick and Warrick entertained themselves by playing basketball or football if they found enough guys. Nick had maintained that he could beat Warrick in a game of basketball with only one working arm, but Warrick had been adamant about Nick following the doctor's orders and taking it easy.

So there they sat, on a bench in the park, watching some high school kids play basketball, in complete silence.

"Did you see that?" Warrick asked, deciding to break the silence.

"Huh? What?" Nick asked, turning to look in the direction Warrick pointed.

"That shot there? You missed it?"

"Uh….guess so," Nick replied.

"Where is it?" Warrick asked.

"Where's what?" Nick asked, feigning ignorance.

"The bird." Warrick grinned. "I know you wouldn't quit watching any game for anything less." He was gratified when, after a few seconds, Nick pointed about thirty yards away to a tree in which a small bird was building a nest.

Warrick watched it for a moment. "You thought you wouldn't get to watch birds again, didn't you?"

Nick looked stricken, but only for a moment before his face became a mask of indifference again. Warrick almost missed the next words: "I don't want to talk about it."

"Nick…how're you gonna deal with it if you don't talk?" Warrick wasn't a big fan of talking about feelings, but he also knew that to get over something so traumatic, a person had to talk about it.

"Nothing to deal with. I'm not there now, that's all that matters," Nick stated flatly.

"But…"

"No! I don't want to talk about it!" Nick jumped up and began walking down the path quickly. Warrick jogged to catch up.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I won't make you talk if you don't want to, okay?" Nick nodded at this, and slowed down to a normal pace.

As they walked back to Nick's house, they were once again totally silent.

* * *

Grissom took another picture of the body as David Phillips, the coroner, described the victim.

"Caucasian male, mid-thirties. He appears to have died of exsanguination, after extensive torture." David removed his thermometer from the body and read off of it. "89.6 degrees, so he's been dead about…16 hours."

Grissom nodded and bent to take close ups. As he did, he noticed a needle mark in the man's arm. "David? Make sure to give some of this guy's blood to tox, all right?"

"Yup. Will do," David replied.

Grissom continued to process, carefully avoiding the smears of blood all over the floor. This was definitely the primary scene. And there, in the blood was a hair. He carefully removed the hair with his tweezers and placed it in a bindle.

As he did this, a low whistle sounded from behind him. Grissom glanced over his shoulder to see Warrick, who stood in the doorway. "Hi, Warrick. Could you process the body?"

"Uh-huh." Warrick set his kit just inside the doorway and carefully walked over to begin processing.

The two worked in silence for a while, each focused on his own task. Finally though, Grissom had to ask.

"How's Nick doing?" He tried to sound nonchalant.

Warrick sighed in frustration. "I don't know. He won't talk about it. He's had some nightmares though, I know. Maybe some panic attacks, but he won't admit it."

"Nightmares and panic attacks are normal," Grissom replied.

"There's nothing normal about what he's going through." Warrick glared for a moment, then his expression softened as he said, "He'll be okay though. He always is."

The truth of that statement hit Grissom hard. _He's always okay. He's Nick. Push him out of a window and he'll be back at work in two days. Point a gun at him? He'll be back at work two hours later, doing paperwork. Live in his attic for a few weeks? He'll bounce back. _They had come to expect Nick to recover from his ordeals. More than that, they expected him to do it quickly and quietly. After all, he had never again spoken of Nigel Crane or Amy Hendler. It was as though he put it behind him and forgot about it.

Grissom was no people person, but he did know that people did not recover from emotional trauma that quickly. They did not simply forget about it. They had to talk about it, come to terms with it, before they could get over it. Nick had never talked about his trials. Grissom paused in his processing as he was struck, as if by lightning, with a new though. _Is he dealing with them at all?

* * *

_

Nick paced his living room, desperately trying to think of something to do. He was dead tired, but he didn't want a repeat of the last time he had tried to get some shuteye. Because of this, he had already mastered another three levels on his most recent video game, read two books, answered all his emails, and fielded the numerous calls from his family.

He didn't know what to do next. Nick felt that he was going stir-crazy in his house, but where else could he go? Not the lab, not for at least three more days. Not to hang out with his friends; Warrick and Greg were probably asleep after their shift.

Nick stomped into his kitchen, opened the refrigerator, closed it, and stalked back to his living room. He wasn't hungry in the slightest, but the act of looking for food had given him something to do for thirty seconds.

He flopped onto his couch and glared at the television. He had already flipped through all the channels and found nothing good to watch. Nevertheless, he glared at the screen, willing it to entertain him. Nothing happened.

He sighed and sank back into the cushions of the couch, closing his tired eyes against the light.

Nick felt his muscles relax, as his thoughts drifted on autopilot, trying to settle on something, he wasn't sure what.

Then, suddenly, as clearly as though it had been spoken into his ear, he heard it:

_Hi CSI guy…_

Nick's eyes snapped open, and he jumped up, attempting to rid himself of the memory.

And then, with a frustrated sigh, he began pacing again, trying to think of something to do.


	4. Chapter 4

Grissom glared at the file on his desk and dropped his pen. Hours of pouring over the reports of findings on his newest case had produced almost nothing. The hair he had found was human, but the DNA was not in CODIS. There were no prints found at the scene, nothing to tell them who the killer was.

On the other hand, the tox screen had come back with high levels of PCP. This did nothing to lead them towards a suspect; PCP was readily available and many junkies used it. What interested Grissom was the fact that the levels of PCP in the victim's system were lethal, yet he had been killed before the drug could take its course. This indicated that the overdose was used only as a method of torture, not a means of murder.

Doc Robbins had explained that the cause of death was actually exsanguination.

_"This laceration across the throat caused him to bleed out within minutes. The other lacerations were antemortem, as were the bruises," Doc Robbins gestured at the rest of the body, which was dark with bruises, and crisscrossed cuts. _

_"So the body was left as it was after death?" Grissom questioned. _

_"Yes. The lividity is consistent with the positioning of the body."_

_"How extensive was the damage antemortem?" Grissom asked, taking in the severe injuries showing just on the surface._

_Doc Robbins shook his head. "The spleen was ruptured, one lung punctured, deep tissue bruising on about fifty percent of the body. There are ligature marks on the wrists, ankles, and across the chest. He was tied up." _

_"And the needle mark on his arm?"_

_"I sent some blood to tox, but it seems some sort of chemical restraint was used. Possibly an overdose. His stomach was basically empty, indicating he had been vomiting repeatedly."_

None of this gave him much to go on. Many victims were tied up, or even drugged.

The lack of a hypodermic needle at the scene intrigued him, though. If there was no needle at the scene, then the killer must have taken it with him. If he could find the syringe, he could use DNA testing to link it to the murder. But he had no idea where to look for it.

Grissom picked up his pen, and promptly dropped it again. He had nothing new to write.

As he stared at the file, his thoughts began to drift towards Nick. He had pushed his musings over Nick's well-being to the back of his mind a few days ago at the scene, but now it filled his mind again.

At the time of the Hendler case, Grissom had assumed Nick would be fine. He had helped the police escort Amy Hendler out of the house, after only a brief "You okay, Nick?" He had disregarded the choked sound of Nick's reply, and left.

Later, he had called Nick to his office to ask him if things were okay. Nick had very quickly said that everything was fine, but he had some paperwork to finish, and had dashed out of the room before Grissom could get another word in.

_Did he really have paperwork? Or was he avoiding the question?_

Grissom's thoughts were interrupted as Warrick came into his office. "Hey, Gris. Did you get anything from Doc Robbins?"

"No, not really." Grissom pushed the file towards Warrick. "I think I' m going to go back to the scene and see if there's anything we missed."

"All right. I'm, uh, at the end of shift, so I thought…" Warrick hesitated.

"Of course, Warrick. Go home. You deserve a break," Grissom said, smiling a little.

"So do you, man," Warrick replied. "Why don't you take one now and again?"

* * *

Nick ran his hands over the cool metal of the outside of his kit, avoiding looking inside at the things he hadn't seen since that night. He sat in the middle of his living room, on the floor, his CSI kit in front of him.

_Get a grip, Stokes. You gotta do this some time, might as well be now. You got nothing better to do_, he reminded himself, reaching down and snapping open the clasp of the case before he could talk himself out of it.

Inside was all the things he had expected. Swabs, tape, tweezers, bindles, his ALS… Everything in the right place.

Nick carefully removed all of the tools and began to sterilize them. He knew someone had probably already done that, but he liked to do this himself. It felt as though, as he removed all traces of the case from his tools, he removed it from his life.

After replacing the tools, he added something else. Two epi-pens, provided by his doctor, in case he ever came in contact with poisonous insect bites again.

One last glance to make sure everything was in order, then Nick closed the case and stood up. He crossed his living room quickly, and went outside, carrying his kit out to his truck. He set his kit in the backseat and slid into the driver's seat, avoiding jostling his shoulder. He no longer had to wear the sling, but he still wasn't allowed to do much with it, and it still hurt.

Sighing as he turned the key in the ignition, Nick steeled himself to face everyone at the lab. No doubt they would stare, whispering, talking, wondering about him. Grissom and Catherine would try to tell him he couldn't be back at work yet, that three weeks couldn't possibly be long enough to… recover.

_If I don't get out of the house, I'll go crazy. How would that be recovering?_ he justified. _If they don't want me there, that's just too bad_.

* * *

The pen clattered across the table, and Warrick rubbed his eyes tiredly. His frustration at the utter lack of evidence in this case made him want to throw more than his pen, but he abstained.

Warrick rested his forehead on his palm, elbow on the table. _Maybe I should take a break…_

He stood and walked over to the coffee machine, leaning against the counter, eyes closed, as he waited for it to spit out some more of the bitter sludge the lab seemed to run on.

"Hey, man, how's it goin'?"

Warrick's eyes snapped open and zeroed in on Nick standing in the doorway of the break room.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" Warrick demanded.

Nick cringed. "What kind of a welcome back is that?"

"It isn't one. There won't be a 'welcome back.' You shouldn't _be_ back!"

"I just want to work in the lab or something. No field work, or anything like that. Just…something to get out of the house, ya know?" Nick still stood in the doorway, fidgeting uncomfortably.

"Man, it's only been three weeks… you sure you want to be back already?" Warrick felt himself beginning to cave. His friend looked so nervous, like a little kid, standing like that, hoping to escape a lecture.

"Yeah! I'm sure. I don't wanna sit around my house and the doc says I still have to take it easy on the shoulder, so there's not much else I can do, outside of the lab." Nick grinned a little bit, in an apparent effort to convince Warrick he was well enough to work.

"You'll have to talk to Catherine and Grissom," Warrick conceded, noting Nick's smile widen in happiness that Warrick wasn't going to yell at him.

"Sure, of course." Warrick mentally kicked himself for giving in so easily. But it wasn't his job to tell people when they could and couldn't work. Not his job as a CSI, anyway. As a friend though….

Warrick shook his head, trying to dislodge the thoughts, and smiled at Nick. "They're out right now. But, uh, I think they need some help in trace…"

Nick gasped in mock horror. "Near Hodges? Noooo!"

Warrick laughed, glad to see that Nick seemed to be putting the past behind him.

* * *

"Absolutely not."

"But, Cath, I –" Nick began to protest.

"No," she cut him off, glaring.

"It's been three weeks!" Nick argued.

"Which is not nearly long enough." Catherine stood up and walked around her desk, so that she and Nick stood face to face.

"Just lab work, c'mon Cath. What am I supposed to do at home all day, every day?" Nick questioned, as Grissom stuck his head in the office.

"Cath- oh, hi Nick – I need your help on a 419 out on the strip," Grissom squinted at them. "What's wrong?"

"I wanna work in the lab," Nick said immediately.

"Okay, go help Bobby Dawson," Grissom said. Nick grinned widely, and rushed off before anyone could say otherwise.

"Gil!" Catherine objected.

"What? Look, can we talk about it on the way? We need to get to the scene."

With an exasperated sigh, Catherine followed Grissom out of the office. Immediately, Grissom began filling her in on the case.

"It looks very similar to that homicide a couple weeks ago, the one who died of exsanguination. Same COD, and similar signs of antemorten torture-"

"Grissom!" Catherine interrupted. "Are we going to talk about it?"

"About what?" Grissom asked, cluelessly.

"About you letting Nick come back to work." Catherine scowled, as they pushed open the doors out to the parking lot.

"Oh. If Nick thinks he's ready, I don't see any reason he can't work in the lab. Anyways, so the vic was a Caucasian male once again-"

"Gil!"

"What?" Grissom's frustration at the interruptions of his report seeped into his voice, but Catherine didn't care.

"It's only been three weeks! He's not ready to be back!" Catherine's own voice betrayed her annoyance, and maybe, though she wouldn't admit it, a tiny bit of fear. She slammed her car door rather harder than was strictly necessary, and glared as Grissom took his time settling himself into his own seat.

"Being back at the lab won't hurt him. There were ligature marks and –"

"Why are you avoiding the issue?" Catherine asked abruptly.

"I'm not. I don't think there is any issue. As I was saying, ligature marks and –" Catherine tuned him out, leaning against the window, staring out at the strip, making no attempt to conceal the fact that she was no longer listening.

Grissom, however, was unaware of Catherine's insolence, continuing to explain the scene. But then, as Catherine thought darkly, Grissom was oblivious to most things when it came to his team, wasn't he?


	5. Chapter 5

BANG.

Nick gritted his teeth as the sound of another test fire, though muffled by the covers on his ears, grated on his already frazzled nerves. _How the hell does Bobby do this all day, every day?_ The excessively loud sound of gunshot was almost as awful as Hodges' obnoxiously rude way of speaking. Almost.

Hopefully, Nick glanced at his watch. He grinned as he read 7:45. Another fifteen minutes and Bobby would leave, and he could find something else to do.

Technically, another fifteen minutes and he was supposed to leave also. But he didn't really feel like going home. Despite some of the less pleasurable aspects of working in the lab, such as the ballistics unit, Nick still preferred the lab to home.

"I think that's the last one for today, Nick," Bobby said. "Just gotta enter these striations into the database and put the gun into evidence, and we can get out of here."

Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

The computer wanted everyone in the vicinity to be aware of its efficient loading of the image of the bullet, apparently. Nick shifted uncomfortably. The boastful computer reminded him a little too much of the confused heart monitor back in the hospital.

"Uh, Bobby, d'you mind if I go ahead and…?" Nick gestured at the door. "I uh, need to talk to Grissom about something before I head out."

"Oh, yeah, sure, Nick." Bobby smiled. "And, Nick? It's good to have you back."

Nick forced a weak smile and practically ran out of the room, turning towards Grissom's office. However, once he was out of sight of the ballistics lab, he didn't go to Grissom's office. Instead, he turned toward the DNA lab. _Maybe Mia needs some help running gels or something_.

Running gels, though nothing compared to the thrill of solving a case, was still much better than being at home.

* * *

Greg liked to observe. He liked to absorb information. He once told Grissom he was a sponge. It was Grissom's line, one he had stolen. But it didn't matter. It fit Greg better anyway.

He observed his colleagues, and absorbed their ideas. He saw Warrick take two samples from a pool of blood; one to send to the lab, one in case the lab lost one. When it was Greg's lab, samples were never lost. Nevertheless, he began to take two samples.

He absorbed patience and silence from Grissom. Easy to absorb, harder to give out, but they were still good lessons.

Greg absorbed the moods of his team. Filed the moods away, for future reference, potential pertinence to a case, or repetition in his friends. It didn't matter what the situation was. It was important information.

Viscosity. A term not often used, even in the lab vernacular. Nobody thought it was terribly important what it was called, that reason that molasses flows slower than water.

Greg thought it was important. They didn't see, like he did, that in order to learn, an environment needed a low viscosity. Information has to flow freely.

Tiny hints of the ways of being a good CSI have a low viscosity. They spread the way water does when Greg knocks over his glass and Grissom is sitting across from him at the diner the CSIs frequent. Fast and unstoppable.

Moods have a higher viscosity. They don't flow so easily, Greg thought. It was harder to absorb the mood of a suspect, the inner workings of their minds. But it wasn't impossible.

The only time Greg couldn't absorb information was the times when the information was no longer liquid. When it was ice, cold, hard ice, hidden behind a cement dam, repressing it, keeping it, locking it away. Those times when one person didn't want to talk and the other didn't know what to say.

Greg guessed he could understand, of course when a person changes, communication is different. But to stop entirely? Stilted conversations, when the dam is opened for a second, but no it isn't, it's only pretend. It isn't real what's coming from that dam. It's disguised, changed, a tiny release of pressure, but the pressure only increases when the dam closes again.

Greg was reminded of high school chemistry, when his teacher told him to find the specific heat of a block. He thought it was either nickel or iron. The block was shiny, so he chose nickel. It was a trick, a disguise, a way to mislead. It was plated iron.

He couldn't absorb plated iron. Plated iron doesn't have viscosity, because plated iron isn't liquid. It can't flow.

Greg wished strongly, as he watched through the glass walls of the lab, that Nick would stop giving him plated iron.

* * *

The chair creaked. Did she use the creaking as a scale? A scale of how uncomfortable he was with each question?

Psychiatrists should not be allowed to have chairs that creak. Chairs that creak make people anxious. Isn't the point of going to a psychiatrist to stop being anxious?

Nick didn't want to sit in the chair that creaked, waiting for the psychiatrist to come back and make him talk. He did not want to talk. He did not want to hear his every movement.

He considered sitting on the floor. Sitting with his legs crossed the way they did when he was in boy scouts at troop meetings before they learned how to tie a new type of knot.

_Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaakkk_. He leaned to look at his shoes.

_Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaakkk_. He untied the laces on his right shoe, tied a small knot. He set about removing the knot.

"Mr. Stokes?"

_Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaakkk_. Nick looked up from the knot into the smiling, though confused face, of the psychiatrist. "Hi."

"Hello. I'm glad we could meet today."

_Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaakkk_. He sat up straighter in his chair, abandoning his shoe laces. "Uh-huh." Maybe he could undo the knot using only his mind. He concentrated hard.

"Let's get started, shall we?"

He squirmed. _Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaakkk_. "Uh, sure."

"Your records say you were kidnapped while working a crime scene in May."

_Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaakkk_. Choked voice. "Uh-huh."

"Wasn't there an officer with you?" The psychiatrist sneezed, and her nose twitched like a rabbit's.

"Bless you." Avoid, avoid, don't answer questions.

"Thank you," the Rabbit replied. "So, was there not an officer?"

_Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaakkk_. Damn chair. "Uh, there was. He was uh, over at his car."

"He didn't hear signs of a struggle?"

"Guess not." His voice was too quiet. He cleared his throat. "No. He didn't."

The Rabbit nodded and wrote something. _Scratchscratchscratch_. It sounded like a chicken scratching at the ground, looking for worms. He might have hated the chicken pen more than he hated the chair that creaks.

"Do you feel that if he had been watching you, as he was supposed to, that you would not have been abducted?" The Rabbit squinted at him. Her glasses must not have the right prescription, if she couldn't see him ten feet away.

"It's not his fault." _Scratchscratchscratch_. "It doesn't matter."

The Rabbit's eyes widened. Blue eyes, the color of the lint that is in the pockets of old, faded blue jeans that have been worn a few too many times. Nick had jeans like that. They had a hole in the back pocket, where he used to keep his wallet.

"Mr. Stokes? Did you hear the question?"

"Call me Nick." _Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaakkk_. What question?

"Okay, Nick. What do you mean it doesn't matter?"

_Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaakkk_. Stop squirming. Damn chair. "It doesn't matter anymore, why it happened."

_Scratchscratchscratch_. He must have said something wrong.

"And why is that, Nick?" The Rabbit stopped writing and stared at him with faded-blue-jeans eyes and leaned forward.

"Because it's over." The Rabbit leaned back. _Scratchscratchscratch_. He scowled and pulled at a loose thread on his jeans. _Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaakkk_. Wasn't the whole point of this to make sure he wasn't insane? The chicken pen, the chair that creaked, the Rabbit with her faded-blue-jeans eyes were going to make him insane.

"You really feel like it is no longer affecting you?" The room smelled weird. Baby powder and rain. There were no babies in this room. This was Las Vegas, desert, where it hadn't rained since the night of the last case he worked in the field. This room had time warped, into the future. It used to have babies inhabiting it, a long time ago when it rained in Las Vegas.

"Yes." The time-warped room made his throat scratchy. _Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaakkk_. Nick looked up at the ceiling. A lot of tiny holes, like tiny little eyes looked back, watching him. _Stop it. Don't watch me._

"You think you are ready to go back into the field?" She twitched her nose to add punctuation to the end of the question he didn't want to have to answer.

He waited. Waited for the perfect words to come. "Yes" seemed like a good one, but he had a feeling it wouldn't be the right one. "No" was out of the question.

"I want to go back to doing my job." That was a pretty good answer. It was just inviting another question though. _Scratchscratchscratch_. Maybe chickens used to live with the babies in the time-warped room.

"You have a job now, at the lab." _That's not a question_. He twitched his nose at her, wondering if she would notice.

"It's not the same job." _Scratchscratchscratch_. They had chickens back on the ranch in Texas.

"Change can be good." Why were his thoughts stuck on random? Maybe he was turning into an iPod. The shuffle kind, the kind that had no screen. Unreadable.

"Sure. But I like my old job better. I like solving puzzles." _Crreeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaakkk_. Extra bit of information. Maybe iTunes had a sale. Buy one get one free. One question, two songs. Two for the price of one.

The Rabbit nodded and the faded-blue-jeans eyes glanced at a sparkly silver watch. "Our time is up." The chicken pen had stopped moving.

Nick nodded, and smiled. Pretend smile. Happy song. "Thank you."

The Rabbit stuck out a hand, which he took, shook it once, then released it quickly.

"I'm going to clear you for field work."

_Haaaallelujah. Haaaaaaaallelujah. HallelujahHallelujahHalleluuuuuujah! _"Th-thank you."

The Rabbit twitched her nose as she smiled and nodded. "I need to run to the office. Could you escort yourself out?"

Nod. _Clackclackclack_ and the Rabbit is gone.

_Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaakkk_. He began to work on the knot again.

* * *

Leaving the psychiatrist's room, Nick smiled to himself. He did it. He could go back into the field, after only six weeks. Not a moment too soon, either, he thought as he walked past Hodges in the trace lab, toward the locker room to pick up his service piece before he went to ask Grissom for a case.

When he walked into the locker room, he found Warrick at his own locker. "Hey, Nick. How was your evaluation?"

"I passed." Nick decided not to tell Warrick about his strange thoughts, brought on by exhaustion, in the psychiatrist's office. He made a mental note to drink some coffee.

Warrick smiled wide, happiness and a tiny bit of relief in his eyes. "That's great, man!"

Nick nodded, pulled the latch on his locker door. He squirmed as the locker door squeaked.

"I had to sit in this chair that creaked every time I moved." He didn't know what caused him to say that, but was glad he did when Warrick laughed.

"Man, I hate that. Always feel like you can't move. It's torture." Warrick stopped suddenly, his eyes gone wide, and stared at Nick. "Oh, God, Nick, I didn't think, I'm so-"

"It's fine," Nick cut him off, slamming his locker door closed, eyes closed against the horrible things beginning to flood his mind. _Taptaptap_.

"No, it's not, really man, I'm sorry." Nick felt a hand on his shoulder. _Too close…_

He stepped back, removing himself from the hand. "It's okay. Really, it is." He opened his eyes.

"Nick…"

"I'm fine!" He winced at the shocked, hurt look on his partner's face. "Sorry," he said softly.

"Don't be. I shouldn't have pushed it." Warrick backed up a little.

Nick stared at the space between them, and wondered why, every time he felt like maybe he wasn't quite so separate from everyone else, something happened, something that made him have to ensure that space around him, just enough so he knew he could breathe.


	6. Chapter 6

Warrick watched Nick grimace after he gulped down a cup of coffee. "How old is this coffee, man?"

Shrug. "I don't know." _Taptaptap_ his pen hit the table. Nick froze at the sound.

Silence. Warrick didn't bounce the pen on the table. But he didn't say anything either. No repeat performances of half an hour ago in the locker room. They pretended that didn't happen.

Mumble mumble. Nick talked to himself, staring at the coffee that sloshed out of a cup held by a trembling hand.

Warrick fought to stay still. _Let him deal with it. He doesn't want to talk_. But what if he did now? _Don't be stupid._

"Nick?" He lost the battle.

"Yeah?" Nick's head snapped up, he looked at Warrick. No more mumbling. He smiled a little, almost embarrassed. _How did he pass that evaluation?_

"Uh. How long did Grissom say it would take him to get here?" He improvised.

"Forty minutes or so. Any time now, I guess." Nick made new coffee.

_Swoosh_. Into a cup as steam poured from the pot. "Do you want some?"

"No, I'm okay." _But you're not.

* * *

_

The sounds of footsteps brought Nick's attention to the door of the break room as he gulped down more coffee. He needed to be awake.

"I've got assignments." Grissom's voice was gruff, barking out an order to ignore his tardiness.

"Hey Gris." Blue eyes like ice turned in his direction.

"Hi Nick. Okay, Sara? I need you to take a B and E on the strip." Grissom handed the paper to Sara, who was barely in the door. She nodded, turned, and left.

"Warrick, Nick, double homicide. Catherine, you and I will take a possible serial." A good assignment. Nick thought for sure, his first night back on the job, he would be the one stuck with a breaking and entering.

"I'll drive," Warrick said, and gestured at Nick to follow him down the hall. Nick poured himself another cup of coffee, swallowed it quickly, and rushed after him.

* * *

The bodies were in the basement. Deep down in the dark, damp basement.

Nick's stomach churned, but he took a deep, hopefully steadying breath, and forced himself to go down the stairs.

The basement felt very cold, like the air was frozen around his body, rooting him to the spot, right at the bottom of the stairs.

He felt a gentle push between his shoulders, and he stepped further into the basement, where he could see David Phillips, the coroner, taking the liver temp of the body. "89.6. Dead about 16 to 24 hours."

The bodies, those of a man and his wife, lay face up, bruised badly, pale as moonlight underneath the sticky red blood.

Nick shook his head to dislodge the thoughts, then clicked his flashlight on, looking around the room. It was pretty sparse. Some tools and an old, broken, folded-up ping-pong table. But there, in the corner, one of the tools was not hung up on a board, the way the others were. He walked over to it, carefully avoiding stepping on any potential evidence.

It was a hammer, with splatters of rust red covering the head and part way down the handle, before there was a void.

_Snap_. The gloves went on, and he picked up the hammer. He shone the flashlight on the hammer, looking closely for hair or fibers.

Suddenly, the light went out, and it was dark dark dark and he couldn't see. The dust of the old basement was filling his mouth, lungs, coating everything with a scratchy layer of dirt, and then he felt the stinging on his arms again. "No no no…" He couldn't breathe through the dust any more, he was suffocating…

"Nick!" A hand roughly grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, pulled him up to full height. "Nick!" He stared into the alarmed green eyes of his partner.

"Light – My – my flashlight went out." The words tumbled out of his mouth, an excuse but not one that made sense. Even so, Warrick nodded.

"It's okay. It's okay." His hand was still gripping Nick's shoulder tightly, so tightly Nick got the impression that Warrick felt he was holding him up.

"I- I forgot to bring the big evidence bags. I'll go get some." He twisted out of Warrick's grasp and rushed away, stumbling up the steps as everything spun around him.

He made it across the street just in time to be sick in the bushes. Trembling, he wiped his mouth and leaned against the Denali, eyes closed, trying to breathe. His chest was going to explode, he just knew it. He couldn't get enough air.

"Nick?" Sara's voice, her hand on his shoulder, steadying him, though the two ton vehicle behind him was doing a fine job of that. "Nick, listen to me. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Good. In. Out. It's okay."

He controlled his breathing. His chest was not going to explode. He opened his eyes. "Thanks."

"Sure, Nick…" Sara looked like she wanted to say something else.

"Uh, I think Warrick really needs some help in there. I'll be in, in just a minute, I need more evidence bags." He avoided her look as he fumbled in his pocket for the keys.

"Sure. Nick, maybe you should go back to the lab?" She made it sound like a question, but it wasn't phrased like one.

"I'm okay." He pulled the back door of the Denali open.

"Okay." He heard her footsteps moving away from him as he rummaged through the car.

"I'm okay," he repeated, quietly.

His heart stopped pounding; it slowed and softened until he wasn't sure it was still beating at all.


	7. Chapter 7

Sara pulled her car up next to the house that was Warrick and Nick's crime scene. Already finished with her B&E case, she drove over to this quiet neighborhood to help with the double homicide.

The house was a two story, painted white, with a small but neat front yard. Nothing looked out of place at first glance. There was a Honda Pilot parked in the driveway, a bike leaned against the side of the garage.

Sara searched a pocket of her CSI vest, looking for her Maglite. A loud slamming noise startled her; she jumped and hit her head on roof of the car. Looking out the windshield, she saw a man, well-disguised by the dark of early morning, dash across the street.

She quickly leapt from her car, left hand holding her Maglite, the right fumbling for her gun as she ran across the street after the person.

Whoever it was stopped on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, and bent to throw up in the bushes. The man then stumbled backwards to lean against Warrick's car.

"Nick?" She reached out, touched his shoulder, a reassurance both to herself and to him, or at least she hoped so.

Nick didn't seem to notice her. One hand held his stomach, the other clutched at his chest, which heaved as he gasped for breath.

"Nick, listen to me. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out." His eyes remained closed, but to her relief, his breathing slowed. "Good. In. Out. It's okay."

Finally, after a long moment, Nick opened his eyes. "Thanks," he said, still a little winded.

"Sure, Nick…" _Are you okay?_

Nick looked to the side, then at his shoes, squirming away from her hand, which still rested on his arm. "Uh, I think Warrick really needs some help in there. I'll be in, in just a minute, I need more evidence bags."

She nodded, then realized he wasn't going to see that. "Sure. Nick, maybe you should go back to the lab?"

Nick's eyes immediately met hers, defiant. "I'm okay." He turned his back to her, signaling an end to the discussion. _O-kay, fine then._

"Okay." Sara turned away from him, shaking her head, and walked across the street and into the house. _I'll let him figure it out himself_.

* * *

_Click. Click. Click_. 

Sara followed the sound of the camera through the pristine house, where nary a hair was out of place. The home was nothing spectacular, but it was very well-kept.

As she walked down a hallway, Sara noted pictures of the family. The most recent one hung at the foot of the stairs leading to the second story. In it, on the left was the mother. Shiny blond hair in a perfect bob, Crest White Strip smile, neat clothes: the perfect picture of motherhood. On the right, the father: tall, stiff, a very forced smile. In the middle was a boy, about nine years old with brown hair and eyes, a crooked grin, and a sort of free-spirited look about him. Sara was almost sure that a second after the shutter closed on this picture, the boy was gone, back outside playing football with buddies.

She shook her head. It was such a shame, when families were killed. More than other murders, she thought. Especially happy families like this, where the parents got along, and the children had such potential.

Sighing, Sara walked down some stairs into a dark basement, where already the coppery smell of blood permeated the air.

In the center of the room, in a large pool of blood, were the bodies of the father and mother. The mother lay face down, her hair messy and sticky with blood, a perfect contrast to the picture upstairs. The man lay on his side, where the side of his head, which had obviously received the majority of blows, was prominent.

Sara pushed the family portrait out of her mind and began to look around for clues as to what happened to destroy that image.

_Click. Click. Click_. "Hey." Warrick's deep voice resounded from the far end of the basement.

"Hey. Coroner cleared these yet?"

"Uh, yeah," David spoke up from the shadow by the stairs. "They're all yours." He picked up his kit and edged past Sara to go up the stairs.

"I'll look for transfer on the bodies." Sara knelt as near as she dared to the blood pool, shining her light slowly over the man's body.

"Okay." _Click._ "Did you, ah, see Nick out there, by chance?" _Click._

"Yeah." There, on the front of the man's shirt was a hair.

"Was he….okay?"

Sara captured the hair in her tweezers and held it closer to her light, to get a better look. "Uh…" She dropped the hair into a bindle. "What?"

"Was he okay?" Warrick walked toward her, gently setting the camera next to his kit, then removing an evidence bag.

"He said he was." Sara moved over to look at the woman's body.

"How was he really?" Warrick walked away from her again, toward a corner of the room.

"He got sick. He was hyperventilating." _Aha. _Blue paint on the woman's face.

"What?!" Sara jumped, shocked at the loud outburst.

"I helped him stop…He's fine." She avoided laser-like green eyes, as she carefully scraped a sample of the paint from the body.

"Yeah. Sure he is." Warrick stomped up the stairs, leaving Sara to her science.

* * *

After his conversation with Sara, Nick had remained outside. _If Warrick really needs the evidence bags, he'll come out here and get them._ _Besides,_ he had reasoned, _someone has to check the perimeter_. 

He had carefully searched the side yard, looking for any trace of a person going in or out of the house without a key, but found nothing. However, when he had made his way to the back of the house, it was very clear to him exactly how the killer had gotten in.

Now, he stared at the evidence spread out on the lab table in front of him, wondering where to begin. He had some pieces of glass from the broken window, including one that he had pulled from the window frame. He intended to test it to make sure the window had indeed been broken from the outside. The other pieces of glass were stained with blood, which he had swabbed and sent to the DNA lab. He had a small piece of cloth, found on a thorny bush under the window. That he would send to Hodges in Trace, to see if there was anything identifying. A photograph of a shoe print sat off to the side, somewhat forgotten. Shoe prints rarely helped very much, so Nick figured it could wait a few minutes while he dealt with the other evidence.

Nick sighed and began to write out the details of the collected evidence in the file. It was tedious, but it was protocol. Ecklie would have his hide if he didn't follow protocol to the letter.

After about fifteen minutes of writing, he decided to give his hand a break. _I could really use a cup of coffee_. As he closed the file and stood, meaning to make the idea of coffee a reality, his beeper buzzed insistently at his side. He glanced at it, squinted, and held it up to the light. It was Mia, paging him to review his lab results.

Coffee would have to wait, then. He walked quickly through the labyrinth of halls to the DNA lab, where Mia stood at a table, frowning at a printout.

"What's up?" he drawled.

Dark eyes rose to look at him. "The DNA from the blood on the window didn't hit on a match in CODIS."

"Oh," Nick said, disappointed at the dead end.

"But it does have seven alleles in common with each of the vics," Mia continued.

Nick froze. "A- a kid?"

"A son."

Nick managed to stammer a 'thank you' before he turned and dashed back to his evidence room, where he grabbed the picture of the shoe print and the piece of cloth.

Stopping in the Trace lab, he handed the bag with the cloth to Hodges. "Trace analysis."

"We're pretty backed up today." Hodges snide tone only served to further antagonize Nick.

"Analyze it, right now," Nick growled, voice barely above a whisper, as he stepped forward, using his height for intimidation. "I don't care what else you've got. First priority. Got it?"

"Yes." Hodges took the bag and moved away quickly.

Nick didn't stay to watch him work, instead rushing to another room where he found the catalog of shoe treads. He began to quickly flip through the first book, barely glancing at the treads to see if they were a match. _Why the hell didn't they make a database for this yet?_

After an hour and a half, eyes blurry and head pounding, he flipped another page, and there. _Finally!_ He scribbled down the type of shoe, and was about to close the book when something caught his eye. A small asterisk at the end of the name. He glanced down at the bottom of the page and learned that this type of boot was rarely worn outside of construction workers.

He jumped up, then grabbed the back of his chair as the room lurched around him. He shook his head, hoping to make the spinning stop, and stumbled out of the room.

Nick raced through the halls, looking for Warrick. Instead, to his dismay, Sara came out of the break room just as he was passing it, catching his arm and bringing him to a halt.

"Nick, I'd like to talk about what happened at the scene." Her dark eyes were heavy with concern, but that wasn't his priority.

"Not now. I've got to find Warrick and tell him- "

"Warrick went out an hour ago," Sara broke in, tightening her grip on his arm.

"What? Where?" he demanded.

"The DNA collected from the semen produced from the vaginal exam didn't match the husband, but it was a match to a construction worker from a site about four blocks from the house. Some of the guy's blood was found in the basement. Warrick went to bring the guy in for questioning." Sara tugged on his arm, pulling him toward the empty break room. "Come on, let's talk."

_All that for nothing. They already found the guy…_ Nick allowed himself to be lead, too distracted to object. He was pushed into a chair, and Sara sat down across the table from him.

"Nick, about the thing at the scene…"

Nick glanced at her sharply, suddenly realizing where this was going. "I'm fine."

"No, no you're not," she disagreed.

"Yeah, I am. I just ate something weird. It's not a big deal." He glared at her, hoping that she would get the idea and leave this alone. She didn't.

"It's okay, you know. That basement was creepy. It was small and dark, and it's perfectly understandable that you'd –"

"I didn't do anything! It had nothing to do with the basement!" He leapt to his feet, meaning to make some excuse quickly and leave. He didn't get the chance.

The room spun more insistently now and he felt his knees buckle. As though they had turned to Jell-o, his legs collapsed under him.

"Nick!"

There was a sharp pain to the side of his head, and then it all went black.


	8. Chapter 8

Sara squirmed in her chair, trying to read Nick's expression as she spoke. "It's okay, you know. That basement was creepy. It was small and dark, and it's perfectly understandable that you'd –"

He stopped her before she had time to finish the sentence, his eyes angry, but under that, he seemed almost…afraid.

"I didn't do anything! It had nothing to do with the basement!" Sara was startled as Nick jumped up, knocking over his chair as he attempted to leave.

She watched, frozen, as he stumbled and caught himself, and then continued to fall.

"Nick!" The word ripped from her throat as she saw his head collide with the table, then the floor.

_Oh my God. _She rushed around the table to kneel next to him. _What do I do, what do I do? Think! Come on! Oh my God._ "Nick. Nick!"

"Oh my God." Sara's own thoughts were projected in a deep voice. She spun around to see Warrick run into the room. "Sara, what happened?"

"We were talking and then he just –" She stopped talking as Warrick lost interest in her words.

"Nick. Nicky, wake up. C'mon, man." Warrick fumbled for Nick's wrist. "Radial pulse. It's pretty weak, though."

"We should call 911." Sara fumbled at her belt for her phone. _Damn these cell phone holders_.

"No no no no," Nick mumbled, moving his head from side to side. "No…"

Sara promptly forgot her phone as she bent over her friend again. "Nick?"

* * *

_He laid back again, rubbing his head, and opened his eyes to an eerie green light. 'What the hell?' he thought. Carefully, he once again tried to sit up, but found something solid above him. _

_Nick shifted to the side, trying to find a way out, but he couldn't find one immediately. 'Don't think about that yet. What do you know?' He moved his hands around the area, finding a long tube. He grabbed it and held it up. _

_Light from the glow stick reflected back at him from glass walls. Nick fumbled for the weight against his hand, finding that his hand slipped easily around the butt of a gun. He lifted it carefully, held it up to the light. _

_Nick focused on the feel of the cool metal against his skin, anything not to see what was around him. He ran his hand across the gun and ejected the magazine. Full. He loaded the gun again, and cocked it. 'Why did you do that?'_

Tap tap tap. _Solid. Not like the hollow walls that so obviously hold dead bodies. No, he is a secret well-kept. _

_His chest tightens, the walls are pushing in closer and closer until they are too tight, crushing him, pressing the air from his lungs. He feels the weight pushing down on him, his ribs aching from the pressure they can't withstand. Can't breathe, can't…_

"No no no." Nick struggled to sit up, but a steady pressure against his chest held him back. "No…."

"Nick?" _Can't breathe, no no no no._ He forced himself to open his eyes, only to find blurry shapes and a light too bright.

"Nick, can you hear me?" _Warrick. Make it stop, please make it stop_.

"I want you to calm down, okay? Breathe deep. It's okay." Warrick's face swam into focus as Nick heeded the instruction.

"Nick? Say something, please," Sara begged him.

"Let…me…up." Nick struggled to sit up, but Warrick continued to hold him back.

"Wait a minute, man. Just wait. You hit your head pretty hard," Warrick reasoned. Fingers gently probed the side of his skull, sending sharp pains through his head.

"No!" Nick pushed Warrick's hands away and sat up, grabbing the leg of the table as his head throbbed painfully. After a moment, he pulled himself to his feet, stumbling three steps before collapsing on the couch, closing his eyes.

Something cold touched his head and he flinched. "That's cold."

"It's ice," Sara replied.

"It's cold," Nick repeated.

Warrick sat down next to him and grabbed his wrist. "What are you doing?"

"I'm checking your pulse."

"Don't. I'm okay."

"Just sit still," Warrick said, pulling a maglite from his pocket and shining it in Nick's eyes to check the pupil reaction.

"I'm fine," he insisted.

"People who are fine don't pass out and hit their heads on tables. Shut up and sit still," Warrick snapped. Nick sat back and closed his eyes.

"Are you dizzy?"

"Yeah," Nick sighed. _This wasn't supposed to happen_.

"You need to eat." Nick listened to the sound of footsteps walking across the room, the sound of the refrigerator open.

"I'm not hungry." Warrick returned, and handed him a sandwich.

"Do it anyway. You haven't eaten anything this shift. Eat, now," Warrick ordered. Nick sighed again, but obeyed.

"How have you been sleeping?" Sara asked, shifting the ice pack.

"It's fine." Nick stared at his sandwich, wishing they would just leave him alone.

"I'm going to take you home," Warrick announced.

"What? No, I'm okay! I can work," Nick protested.

Warrick just shook his head. "Eat."

* * *

Sara stared at the doorway Nick and Warrick had exited through a few minutes ago. 

There was something about it, something that wasn't right. Not on the level of Nick collapsing, but in the way that Warrick handled it. She was surprised at the forcefulness of his voice, the fierce look to his eyes. It was almost as though he wasn't surprised.

_Shouldn't he have been? How could he know?_ She racked her mind, trying to find some clue that this was coming. She thought of how he had looked at the crime scene. _But he wasn't hyperventilating or anything_.

Suddenly, an image flashed into her mind. _Nick slung his bag over his shoulder and walked down the hall. His eyes were downcast, his shoulders sagged as though he was carrying the whole world. Grissom crossed his path near the front desk, and they both stopped. Grissom asked something, but Sara couldn't hear what from her distant vantage point. Nick replied with a ghost of a smile, the saddest smile Sara had ever seen. He turned and walked away, out of the doors of the lab, out into the light of a day that couldn't banish the darkness weighing on him_.

That had been months ago, before the incident with Walter Gordon, before any of this. And yet, something about the way he looked then told her that this was a long time coming.

* * *

Warrick had barely stopped the car in Nick's driveway before Nick mumbled a 'thanks' and was out of the car. 

"Hey!" Warrick leapt out of the driver's seat and slammed the door. He followed Nick into the house.

"What Warrick? What now?" Nick stopped and spun to face him.

"What's up with you? Huh?" Warrick demanded.

"Nothin'. Just leave it alone," Nick said, scowling.

"Yeah. Picture that," Warrick responded. Then, more softly, "C'mon, man."

"It's nothing, okay? I just forgot to eat lunch. It's not a big deal." Nick looked away, putting a hand to his head and grimacing.

Warrick sighed, then walked into Nick's bathroom, where he opened the medicine cabinet. There, he found three prescription bottles: one, anxiety medication, was completely full, one bottle of sleeping pills with a few missing, and a half-full bottle of pain killers. He scanned the label of the pain killers, then popped the top off and grabbed a couple.

He walked back out to the living room, where he found Nick lying on the couch. "Here. Take these." He got a bottle of water from the refrigerator and handed it to Nick with the pills.

"What are they?"

"Pain killers. For your head," Warrick responded. "Just take them, okay?"

Nick sat up to swallow the pills, then quickly laid back again.

"You gonna be okay if I go back to the lab?" Warrick asked.

"Yeah. Go ahead," Nick replied tiredly.

"You shouldn't sleep for more than an hour at a time."

"Okay."

"Nick? Seriously. Do you want me to call you?" Warrick frowned at the exhaustion his friend was suddenly exhibiting.

"No. I have an alarm."

"Okay. I'm gonna go. I'll see you later."

"Yeah." Nick didn't even look up as Warrick reluctantly turned to leave.

"Warrick." Warrick turned back to Nick.

"Yeah?"

"I really am fine." Warrick shook his head and walked out.


	9. Chapter 9

Nick lay on his couch, staring at the ceiling. He felt the heat building in his chest even more than the shooting pain in his head.

He was angry. Very angry. Not at Warrick. He knew Warrick was just trying to help. Not at Sara, though he did wish she would have left him alone when he asked. No, he was angry at himself, for letting this happen.

_What is wrong with you? Why can't you just get over it?_ It was over. He knew it, knew there was no longer a threat to him. But something, _something_ was holding him back.

_How could you let this happen?_ he berated himself. _So stupid…_

Nick wanted to be okay. He wanted to be happy, like he was before. But it was like he had forgotten, forgotten how to remove himself from the terrible things he saw at work every day, from all the darkness out there in the world.

These things start to wear on a person, he knew all too well. He remembered, years ago, telling Sara she needed to have something outside work. Something to take the edge off. Nick vaguely wondered if what he had said contributed to her almost DUI a year ago.

Who was he to be giving anyone advice, really? How could he say that he knew any better than Sara how to cope with the job? He used to be sure that he knew. Now he wasn't sure of anything.

He liked his job. It was fun, a lot of the time, the science of it. He got great satisfaction from helping the families of victims get closure. But the part he truly hated was the arrest. There was a satisfaction in finding the answer, the same way there was in a math problem. But along with it, there was a stab of sadness, as he realized, just as that person had killed, he had just as effectively ended a life. It wasn't his fault, he knew, but seeing a person taken away, to spend the rest of their days sitting in a cell, a complete waste of life…

Nick was tired. Not just because of the nightmares that still plagued him. He was tired for reasons he didn't even understand.

But more than anything, he was angry. He was angry at Walter Gordon, for ruining everything. He was angry at himself for not being able to pick up the pieces.

* * *

"So, we just need some way to put the guy at the scene, at the time of the murders." Warrick was already back on the case as he walked into the evidence room Sara was using.

"Nick found something he needed to tell you about. Speaking of, how is he?" Sara responded.

"Tired and in denial. What'd he find?"

"He left this on the table in the break room." Sara handed over a piece of paper. "Is he okay?"

"No. Okay, Nick wrote 'shoeprint, construction worker,'" Warrick said, squinting at the nearly illegible scrawl.

"He found a shoeprint in the backyard. It rained a few hours before the time of death, if the shoeprint had been before then, it wouldn't have still been there. That means he was in the yard at the time of death." Sara summarized. "Are we really not gonna talk about this?"

Warrick scowled at the paper. "Not right now. He wrote something else here. Can you read that?"

Sara took the paper back, peering at the messy writing. _Odd,_ she thought offhand. _His handwriting is usually neat. _"It says… 'blood on window equals … son.'" Sara looked up in shock. "They have a son."

"Where is he? Warrick asked immediately.

"With the boyfriend?"

"We need a warrant for his house. I'll call Brass." Warrick turned and walked out of the room quickly, already dialing his phone.

Sara made a few notes in the file, then replaced the evidence in the box. She noticed a second file in the box, which she pulled out to read.

Nick's neat handwriting covered three-quarters of the page. He detailed the shoe print, a piece of cloth, and broken glass from the window. The blood from the window was a match to the son. The shoe print was a boot commonly worn by construction workers. All that was left was the cloth, which was in Trace, and the broken window.

Sara lifted a piece of glass out of the box, noting the tape on one side labeled "outside." She set the glass back in the box, and stood up. _Might as well do the glass test_.

As she walked through the lab, she thought about the kid. Nick had known the kid existed when he had been rushing to find Warrick, but he hadn't told Sara. _Why wouldn't he tell me?_

Maybe he had assumed she already knew. She should have. There were enough pictures in the house. It was an oversight, something that should not have happened.

_Just like everything else today_.

* * *

_"Mom… Cisco … well, this is a lousy way to say goodbye, but it's all I've got."_

_Unbidden, the image of his parents burst into his mind. He saw his mother, her body wracked with sobs, his father holding her close, blinking back tears of his own, as they heard his goodbye from the cold, unforgiving little machine in his hand. _

_He choked up. He couldn't do this. This wasn't any way to say goodbye. But like he had said, it was all he had. He still hoped they would find him, but he didn't want to risk losing his last chance. He breathed deeply, and began to speak. _

_"I love you." Pause. "You raised me right…" His throat closed again. He struggled to speak. "And I'm going to miss you." _

_He swallowed hard. Now for the harder part. "As for the rest of you guys…" Swallow again. "I know you did the best you could to find me." _

_"Grissom…"_

"No!" Nick bolted upright, gasping for breath. His head pounded and he wiped sweat from his forehead. He looked at the clock. _Damn it…._ It had only been half an hour.

He stood up, swaying slightly, and made his way to the bathroom. He fumbled in the medicine cabinet for the pain killers. _Is it even okay to take these now?_ Did it matter?

He took two and turned on the shower.

If he hurried, he could be in the lab in an hour.

* * *

"Did you find the kid yet?" Nick asked, pulling up a chair in the evidence room Warrick sat in.

"No. We didn't realize there was one, until we found your paper." Warrick looked up and squinted at Nick. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Working. Did you get a warrant for the boyfriend's house?"

"Brass is working on it. You should have gotten some sleep instead of coming back in," Warrick said.

"I slept for a bit. What would the boyfriend want with the kid?" Nick snagged the file from in front of Warrick, flipping it open and beginning to read.

"Well, why did the boyfriend kill the parents? I could see killing the husband. But he was seeing the wife, so what's he get outta killing her?"

"Maybe…the wife decided to stay with her husband? Boyfriend gets angry, kills them both?" Nick suggested.

"Could be. But…that much rage? Isn't that a little much?" Warrick asked, pulling out his phone, which buzzed insistently.

"Brown…yeah…we'll be right over…thanks." He snapped the phone shut. "Brass got the warrant."

* * *

The ramshackle house more slouched than stood. The paint was peeling, one of the upstairs windows was broken.

Damien Hall was still in holding. Brass was currently getting Hall's fingerprints, so that they could match them to the fingerprints on the hammer.

In the mean time, Warrick and Nick were searching the little house for any clue of the boy. Warrick had immediately gone in the house, and begun searching the bedroom and closets.

Nick waited outside for a moment. He stood still, assessing the house, the lawn, the surroundings. The lawn was patchy. There was mud on the side of the house. The front steps were rotting.

Carefully, he walked up the steps into the house. The living room was strewn with junk: magazines, paper plates, trash.

_Where would the kid be?_ He glanced around, trying to get the layout of the house.

_Thump_. "Hey, you okay?" Nick called out.

"Yeah. Ran into a dresser," Warrick yelled back.

Nick smirked a bit, and moved to the right, toward the kitchen. He opened a closet on the way, only to find a coat and a sweatshirt, and nothing else. He kept walking, into the kitchen. He stared at the pile of dishes in the sink, the grime coating the floor.

He opened the refrigerator, for no clear reason. Nothing jumped out at him. He closed it.

"Look what I found." Nick jumped at Warrick's voice behind him.

"Sorry, Nick. Steroids. Explains the rage," Warrick said, holding out a bag of pills.

"Also means the kid probably didn't make it."

Warrick didn't say anything.

"I'm going to go back outside," Nick said softly, turning to go.

"I'll finish up in here," Warrick replied.

Outside, Nick wandered around the house. He walked slowly, looking for any sign of a kid.

He found himself in the backyard, looking back at the house. Incredibly, the house looked even worse in the back. The dingy, peeling paint had flaked off and dusted the porch. The screen door hung by its hinges, no longer fitting in the frame.

Nick turned to find a tiny shack. It was as rundown as the house, but on the door was a chain, shining and new, looped through the handles and a padlock securing it.

He rushed over to it, pulled on the door. It shook, but did not open. Nick stilled, listening hard. There, it was faint, he could hardly hear it, but it was there. Crying.

"Nathan? Nathan is that you?" he asked as he frantically tried to remove the lock. No luck.

He slammed his shoulder against the door, feeling the reverberations through his skull, the pain making him dizzy. Nevertheless, he tried again, feeling the hinges rattle. Looking around, he found a shovel. It vaguely occurred to him that a shovel belonged in the shed, but he didn't dwell on it.

Nick lifted the shovel, turned it sideways, and slid the blade in between the door and the shack. He pushed hard on the shovel. With a long groan, the hinges pulled free of the shed wall, and the door swung out to hang loosely.

Nick dropped the shovel and hurried into the shed. A small boy with mussed blond hair and frightened brown eyes huddled in the far corner on the dirt floor of the shack.

He knelt in the center of the shack. "Hey, Nathan? It's okay. I'm a cop. You're okay now."

Nathan Green stood up shakily, stumbling a few steps forward. He wrapped his arms around Nick's neck, burying his face in Nick's shoulder.

Nick sucked in a breath, then let it out as he closed his eyes and placed his arm around Nathan, to hold him secure.

"It's okay. I've got you. You're okay."


	10. Chapter 10

Sara walked into the break room to find Nick sitting at the table, head cradled in his hands.

"Hey, Nick. You okay?" she asked cautiously.

"Yeah." He didn't look up. "Just a headache, s'all."

"I heard you found the kid…" She let the sentence dangle, hoping he would respond.

"Yeah." He stopped.

"Why didn't you tell me they had a kid?"

"I – I don't know. I didn't think about it…I just wanted to find him." Nick turned to stare toward the hallway, at the bustle of Swing shift leaving for the day, and the rest of Grave coming in.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he said suddenly.

"That's okay, Nick," she responded.

Just when she thought he was going to leave it at that, he spoke. "I talked to him, at the hospital."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He said, 'I knew you'd find me. I knew it.'" He looked up at her, and she was shocked at the torment reflected in his dark eyes. "How, Sara? How did he know?"

Sara stared at him, at a loss for words.

"He doesn't know us, or anything about us. How could he know we would find him? How did he know when I didn't…?"

There was a loud screech as Nick pushed back his chair, then he stood up and walked quickly past her, his dark clothes against the white of the room a blur in her peripheral vision, a shadow of something she couldn't quite see.

* * *

Warrick walked through the stark hallway of the lab, carrying the file for their case, to be delivered to Grissom. 

It was strange, seeing Nick with that kid. The way the boy had trusted Nick so completely, refusing to let go of his hand as they took him to the hospital. The look on Nick's face when the doctor had told them Nathan would be just fine. It was as though his world would come crashing to a halt if Nathan wasn't okay. As if Nick's life now centralized Nathan's.

In a way, Warrick supposed it did. They saved Nick the same way Nick saved Nathan. It only seemed to make sense that Nick needed Nathan to be all right.

As he was thinking this, Nick burst out of the break room, hurrying down the hall toward him.

"Nick?" Warrick frowned.

"Y-yeah?" Nick stopped. Warrick noted the tremor in his voice that matched the shaking of his hands.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I was just going to, ah –" Nick stammered.

"Yeah. Grissom's gonna be in to give out assignments in about twenty minutes."

"Okay," Nick said, and walked down the hall.

Warrick continued to Grissom's office, where he left his file amidst the creepy, crawly things that lived in Grissom's inner sanctum.

He then went to the break room, considering playing a bit of Madden before shift. This dream was quickly crushed, however, by his being ambushed by Sara.

The second he was in the door of the room, she shut it behind him.

"Can we talk now?" she asked.

"What?" Warrick asked, as he dropped onto the couch.

"About Nick."

"Oh."

"What's wrong with him, Warrick? What happened yesterday?" Sara demanded.

"My guess? Stress and low blood sugar," Warrick replied with some resignation.

"Low blood sugar? That's it?"

"In combination with emotional stress, it could easily cause –"

"Stop. Just stop. I don't need a science lesson. What are we going to do about it?" She interrupted.

Warrick sighed in frustration. "I don't know. Everything I do seems to make it worse." He hung his head.

"Maybe we should talk to Grissom…" Sara began.

"No." Warrick stopped her. "I don't want to upset him anymore. Poor guy can't get away from all this, the last thing he needs is more people bugging him about it. I don't want to do that to him."

"Then what do you suggest, Warrick?" Sara snapped.

"Nothing. Just let him be."

"Are you kidding? We can't just –" She stopped as the door to the break room opened and Catherine and Grissom walked in.

"Are we interrupting something?" Catherine asked.

"No. Assignments?" Warrick shifted topics.

"Yes." Grissom responded.

"Okay. Uh, Nick went somewhere, but he'll be right back," Warrick replied. "Gris, can I be partnered with Nick tonight?"

"Sure, Warrick," Grissom said easily. "And…Sara and Catherine can take this double on Freemont Street…and Greg and I will take this 419 at a hotel on the strip." Grissom distributed assignment slips.

Warrick scanned the paper, assessing the case quickly. "Okay. Thanks, Gris. See ya later."

On his way out of the break room, Warrick caught Sara's worried glance. He offered a small smile, hoping to reassure her, then set off in search of his best friend.

* * *

Sara caught up with Warrick in the locker room, finding him alone. 

"We can't just not doing anything about this, Warrick," she said. "I know you think it will just make it worse, but how can he get better if we don't take that risk?"

"You saw how he reacted just thinking about it! How's it gonna help at all to have a bunch of people talking about it all the time?" he demanded.

"But maybe Grissom, or Catherine, would know something else to do –" she suggested.

"Yeah, sure. Grissom who can't even tell there's anything wrong with sending him to work in a basement? And you know Cath is just gonna act like his mother," Warrick shot back. "How are they gonna help anything?"

Sara sighed. "I guess you're right. But, Warrick, he can't keep going like this. You know he can't."

"No," Warrick agreed. "Something's gotta give."


	11. Chapter 11

Grissom was researching little-known cults of the Las Vegas area, background on a case, when a quiet knocking interrupted the previous silence of his office.

He rubbed his temples, feeling a migraine coming on. "What?" he demanded irritably.

"Uh, Gris?" Nick stood uncertainly in the doorway, seemingly torn between coming in and escaping as soon as possible.

"What now, Nick?"

"I uh, just needed a bit of help on my case…" Nick trailed off, squirming under Grissom's piercing gaze.

"What is it, Nick?" Grissom snapped, motioning for Nick to speed it up.

"Uh, never mind," Nick said softly. "I'll just…" He didn't finish the sentence, instead turning to leave the office, pulling the door closed behind him.

_Why did you do that? You didn't need to snap at him. You are here to help him on cases. It's what you do_. Grissom reminded himself, already feeling a pang of guilt at Nick's hurt expression.

It was just that, Nick seemed almost desperate for someone to believe he was back on his game. For reasons unknown to Grissom, Nick was looking for his approval.

_"Repeat after me. Silk silk silk."_

_"Silk silk silk," Nick replied, leaning back in his chair, frowning in confusion. _

_"Now what do cows drink?"_

_"Milk," he said, still wondering where this was going. _

_"Cows drink water. They give milk. A simple riddle: common sense disguised in a puzzle of words, but an excellent barometer for evaluating someone's readiness." Grissom would never forget the look on Nick's face: disappointment, frustration, the tiniest hint of anger. _

_"Look, I'm not one of your suspects you can trick, okay? If I'm not ready, be a man, tell me I'm not ready," Nick replied. _

_"You're not ready." Grissom watched as Nick clenched his teeth, looked away. He was surprised when Nick spoke again. _

_"You know why I took this job? Honestly? I wanted to pack heat, walk under the yellow tape, be the man…" Nick smiled a little, but his voice was deathly serious as he fixed Grissom with an intense look as he said, "but mostly, because I want you to think I'm a good CSI."_

"_And that's why I have to hold you back."_

That had been years ago. He hadn't thought much of the conversation for a long time afterwards. Grissom had simply thought that it was over and done with, that they weren't going to speak of it again.

They didn't, but it did come to his mind, three years later, when it came time to recommend someone for a promotion. He was sitting in his office, considering. He recalled a discussion with Nick, when he had reopened an old case. It had been Grissom's decision to close the case, but Nick's to reopen it. He had pointed this out to Nick, but he had opened the case anyway. Grissom was surprised at that. There was no new evidence, no reason that it couldn't be let go. But something about it caught Nick's attention, and Grissom was curious as to what it was. He had watched the case, more carefully than Nick realized.

He remembered distinctly Nick bringing in part of a tree to study, and using it to find a toxic event four years prior, proving that a body had been burned in gasoline under that tree. Grissom was impressed by the science and problem-solving Nick had used to come up with a way to test it. But he hadn't told Nick that.

When Nick had solved the case, Grissom questioned him.

_"Four years ago when I decided to close this case, did you agree with my decision?" He took the file and walked back to his desk, waiting for an answer. He didn't get the one he expected. _

_"Well, you were following protocol." _

_"And now?" Grissom turned to look at Nick, anticipating, hoping…_

_"Now I'd fight you on it, yeah." Attaboy Nicky. _

_"Why?" _

_"Rita Westonson was a dependable, predictable girl. We never answered the question why she just woke up one morning and walked away from the rest of her life." _

_"It happens. And that's what the evidence was telling us." Grissom had always told Nick 'The more the why, the less the how. The more the how, the less the why.' It wasn't their job to know why a person did something. It was their job to know how, and to be able to prove it._

_"Well, that's what the physical evidence was telling us. We should have dug deeper. You can't just ignore the human element, Grissom." There was a strange tone to Nick's voice. He was challenging Grissom, daring him to disagree. _

_"I agree, Nick." How could he not? "But when you start having feelings for the people involved, you risk your objectivity," he admonished._

_"So what?" Grissom stared at him. Where did this man, so sure of himself, come from? "You know, I'm always getting criticized for empathizing with the victims and the families, but that's who I am. That's how I do my job. And as far as the promotion goes, it's all good, man. I can live without it. I'm not you." There it was. That little jab at Grissom's emotional unavailability. But Grissom was not expecting Nick to bring up the promotion. _

_"Good. We certainly don't need another me around here." Nick turned to leave his office. Grissom sank into his chair, slightly amazed at the change in his CSI over the last three years. _

_He began typing an email, more sure of himself than he had been in a long time. "Dear sir, I strongly recommend Nick Stokes for the promotion to Lead CSI."_

Grissom had been proud of Nick, glad he had found himself and was confident in that.

_Where did it go?_ he wondered. The person who had stood in his doorway moments before possessed none of the confidence of the one he had recommending, and all of the insecurities of the still-new CSI of five years ago.

Maybe it was his fault, for doubting Nick, for making him so unsure. When he had let Nick do his own thing, he had flourished. But now, here he was back where Grissom could watch him, see every mistake, and he was making many more of them.

Grissom mentally kicked himself for being so harsh with Nick. It didn't matter that he didn't like it when people searched for approval. These were extenuating circumstances.

* * *

A few hours later, Nick found himself still flipping through books, trying to identify his specimen. His eyes burned and the words blurred, all the pictures were beginning to look like.

He turned another page, blinked, rubbed his eyes, squinted. "Finally!"

"What'd you find?" Grissom's calm voices sounded from behind him, causing Nick to about jump out of his skin.

"Psyllids. Found some at the crime scene," he said, trying to slow his racing pulse.

"Oh, really?" Grissom asked, obviously interested. He looked over Nick's shoulder at the specimen. "Did you feed them?"

"I put in some of the plant I found them on, since I didn't know what they ate." Nick labeled the specimen jar carefully.

"What were you going to ask me about earlier?" Grissom queried.

"Just for a bit of help identifying this bug, because I didn't know where to start," Nick replied, bending over the file to avoid looking at Grissom.

"I apologize for being cross with you." _Typical Grissom, always so formal_.

"No problem." Nick stood up, closing his file, and picked up the specimen jar. "Well, I'd better go tell Warrick what I found." He walked way, leaving Grissom in his wake.


	12. Chapter 12

Every person learns early in life that there are things you don't do. You don't cry in public. You don't play outside when there is lightning. You don't tell your parents when your brother does something wrong, not when you stand to gain from being able to tell.

But most of all, people learn that you don't have a fight with someone and then talk about it. You don't talk about it with the person you fought with, and you don't talk about it to anyone else. You pretend it didn't happen.

The thing about growing up is that things get more chaotic. The entropy in life increases exponentially each year. The only way to manage entropy is to categorize it, fit it into a neat set of parameters, put it in a box. You expand the rules you've always known.

That's how it comes to pass that you can't talk about the hard things. It isn't just about fights anymore. It's anything that isn't easy to say. You don't share your feelings. If someone dies, you don't talk about it. You don't talk about it when your best friend is buried alive. You pretend it didn't happen.

The way Warrick figured, it was when you broke the rules that things got bad. Nothing truly happened until it was discussed.

He remembered the way Nick had looked at him that day in the park, when he had tried to talk. The tiny bit of panic, quickly covered up. Nick had always followed the rules.

Warrick remembered the Nigel Crane incident from years before. They didn't talk about it. No issues there, it hadn't really happened.

If Nick was going to follow the rules, then he would too. He had never been a big fan of following the rules, as shown by the numerous conflicts he had had just at the lab since he had come to work for Grissom. But for Nick, he would do it.

That's why he didn't say it. He didn't tell Nick what he thought. He made small mental notes on Nick's condition, but kept his thoughts to himself.

It was why, when he heard Nick's breath catch when his flashlight dropped and broke, he silently handed him a new one. Why he didn't comment on Nick's thin, sickly appearance. Why he laughed and joked with his friend as though nothing had happened.

He wondered if, when you had already acknowledged the disorder of your world, you could still fit it in that box.

* * *

There was something about life that really changed at midnight of New Year's Day. If you slept through the monumental second of a whole year ending and a new one beginning, you didn't get to see it. You woke up the next morning and it was another normal day. You didn't get to see the magic. The magic moment where, as the New Year came in, everything went sparkly and the whole world lit up, exploding into gold light like the sun. At least, that's what Nick's big brother told him. 

The first year he was old enough to stay up until midnight for New Years, Nick had been ecstatic. He was going to get to see it, really see it, and wouldn't it just be so great?

He almost didn't make it. He almost fell asleep just an hour before it happened. But no, he held on. He was determined to see the New Year, and he was going to see it before anyone else too.

They were at a party, at the home of one of his father's friends. Lawyers, and the like. Nick didn't like them much, they ignored him, and their kids were too old. He didn't say that though. His mom had told him to be polite.

His brothers and sisters didn't pay him much attention. They left him sitting on the stairs, waiting for the light. And so he sat. He waited, for what felt like the longest time in his five years. Waiting waiting waiting like when mom dragged him to the doctor and they sat in the room that smelled wrong while he waited to be called back and stuck with a needle.

This was a bit better though, because, though this room didn't smell good either, hopefully no one was going to stick him with anything sharp.

As the moment approached, the grown-ups talked louder, crowded around a television. Afraid he would miss something, Nick scrambled down the stairs and pushed his way through the sea of legs, looking for familiar ones.

But none stood out. He stopped, standing in the middle of so many people, looking up to see no one he knew. He chewed his lip, not even knowing which direction to go to get out of this mess.

"Mommy?" he squeaked, staring up at the grown-ups. "Mommy?"

"Nicky, come over here," her voice floated toward him along with the familiar smell of her perfume, and he ran as fast as he could to collide with her legs.

"Are you ready, Nicky? It's almost time," she said, smiling, pointing towards the little television.

On the grainy picture, he saw an orb, and suddenly, it began to fall, as all the people around him began to shout "Ten…nine…eight…seven…"

This was it, this was it, it was going to happen now, the magic moment, and he was going to see it!

"Four…three…two…one…HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

The little orb on the screen lit up. Nothing else did. Nick felt his mom tighten her arms around him in a hug, felt people shuffling around, but he didn't care. Where _was_ it? That little ball on TV was not the world. Where were the lights? Where was the magic?!

He struggled to push through the crowd without getting stepped on, and finally made it out of the crowd, near a window. Nick climbed up onto the window seat and squinted through the glass at the looming darkness, trying to understand, when suddenly it all exploded.

The darkness shattered, and the world burst into sparkling, burning, electrifying color.

These were nothing like the Fireworks at Fourth of July. They were so much better.

Dozing in the car on the way home, he felt warm and happy and…magical. It had been magic, and he had been the first person to see it.

As he looked back on that time in his childhood, Nick shook his head at how stupid he had been to believe his brother. The world didn't change when the year changed. Nothing changed when the lights came on and showed everything for what it was.

It only changed when the lights went out, and all you were left with was the dark.

* * *

Warrick fiddled with the dial on his radio, trying to find a good station. He drove lazily, one wrist draped over the wheel, as he leaned back in his seat. 

He had left the lab the morning before at the end of shift, after he and Nick had obtained some encrypted files from the home of a suspect. Warrick had taken one look and known that the encryption would take hours to break. He figured, as it was the end of shift, the best course of action would be to get some rest and return to it next shift.

He had said as much to Nick, Nick had nodded, seemingly in agreement, and said he'd leave in a few minutes.

However, as he walked into the lab, he was surprised to see Nick squinting at the computer screen, in the same clothes as the previous shift.

"Damn, Nick, did you ever go home last night?" he asked, taking in Nick's rumpled clothes and the dark circles under his eyes.

"I got the files," Nick mumbled, avoiding Warrick eyes. _That's a no, then_.

"Yeah? Anything good?" he replied instead.

"Some bank records, showing a transfer of forty thousand bucks to an Angela Woods, two days before the murder," Nick replied, pointing at the screen.

"Pay off from the husband to kill his wife?" Warrick hypothesized. "We should check it out."

Nick nodded and stood to leave, stumbling a little.

"Nick, maybe you should head home? I can handle this on my own," Warrick said quietly, placing a hand on Nick's shoulder.

Nick shrugged off the hand. "No. I'm fine. C'mon, man. Let's go." He walked out of the room, before Warrick could respond.

Warrick stared after his partner, shaking his head sadly. So this was the aftermath. A friend who couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and wouldn't talk to anyone about it.

He'd never thought of his friend as the self-destructive type, but now he was beginning to wonder. Nick wasn't the same person he had been, not anymore.

Though he had watched Nick in the box on a live feed, he still couldn't fathom what Nick must have gone through. He knew that the entire time, Nick had seemed very calm. He had held it together.

It was only when they had finally found him that he had started to fall apart. And it looked as though, when Nick fell apart, he left a piece of himself in that box, there to be imprisoned, lost to them forever.


	13. Chapter 13

It was a full two months after his return to the lab that Nick finally discovered the serial killer. The last murder had been just before he returned to the lab.

Eight weeks later, there was another. All hands on deck, was the call. The whole team was assigned to this case.

Nick sat in the passenger seat of the Denali, drumming his fingers on his knee, waiting for Warrick to fill him in on the case. Warrick didn't say anything. Nick cleared his throat.

"What's the deal with this guy?"

Warrick glanced at him, then back at the road. "We don't know much. His victims are white males, late thirties. He tortures them extensively before he kills them, including drugs. Slashes the throat to kill."

"Any leads yet?" Nick asked.

"None that have gone anywhere. We don't have a clue." Warrick stared determinedly ahead, into the dark ahead of them.

Nick listened to the sloshing of the windshield wipers as they tried to fight the torrential downpour.

To his relief, they arrived at the home of the victim within a few minutes. It was a medium sized house, with a messy yard and chain-link fence. Grissom, Sara, Greg, and Catherine stood huddled on the covered porch out of the rain.

Warrick parked the car on the street, and he and Nick pulled on their coats in the car, grabbed their kits and dashed toward the porch.

"Good, you're here!" Grissom shouted over a loud clap of thunder. It was just their luck that they would get caught in the biggest storm of the year. "Body's in the bedroom. Warrick, you and I will look at the bedroom. Cath, Sara, you handle the rest of the house. Greg, you can process the body. Nick…" Grissom paused for a moment, and Nick looked at him expectantly. Grissom determinedly did not meet his gaze. "Nick, you check the perimeter."

"In this? Are you nuts?" Catherine yelled, waving an arm at the sheets of rain and nearly knocking Sara down the steps.

"Any evidence out here is getting more compromised the longer we wait. If there's anything to be collected, it's got to be quick," Grissom reasoned.

"It's cool, Cath," Nick said, pulling the zipper of his coat a little higher and turning to walk back into the rain.

Cool was an understatement. It couldn't be warmer than forty degrees out here, and the rain made it that much colder. Nevertheless, Nick pulled his maglite out of his pocket and began to look around the yard.

The front door slammed, effectively closing him out, but he ignored it. He wandered around to the side yard, where there were a shovel and a rake leaning against the side of the house. A tiller rested next to them and the metal garbage cans were against the fence. Noticing something strange, he walked over to the garbage cans to take a closer look.

On the top of one of them was a muddy footprint, one that somehow had survived the rain thus far, probably thanks to the large tree in the neighbor's yard which was partially covering it.

Nick pulled his camera out, and carefully lined it up to take a picture of the print. The killer had probably used these as a quick step to hopping the fence and escaping.

_CRACK_. A tremendous sound from above him, and he looked up to see the tree branch he was earlier so grateful for, falling and about to crush him.

Nick leapt to the side, but the branch caught his shoulder, sending him sprawling and slamming his arm and side into the blades of the tiller.

"Shit," he mumbled, disentangling himself, already feeling the burning. He carefully stood up and instinctively moved away from the branch. Then he looked down. Blood was already seeping through his coat, both on his side and his arm, becoming pink and diluted in the still pouring rain, and falling to spatter the ground. "Shit."

He stripped off his coat, ignoring the sting of icy rain through his thin shirt, and wrapped the coat around his arm and pressed it against his side to stop the bleeding.

Deciding to salvage what evidence he could, he squinted back at the tiller, blinking the raindrops from his eyes. He knelt closer to the gardening tool to see, underneath the shiny coating of fresh blood, a bit of dried blood, protected from the rain by the body of the machine. _Damn it._

He used his good arm to tug his kit out from under the branch, and pulled out a swab. He swabbed the dried blood and capped it, dropping it back into the case. He snapped a picture of the tiller, then noticed a small piece of denim on one of the blades. It too, was covered in blood. _Grissom is going to kill me_.

He removed the scrap and bagged it, then packed up to continue around the house.

Nick walked around the back, where he found a door, with the lock all scratched up. Picked. He snapped another picture. The door knob was too wet to search for prints. _Damn rain_.

When he had returned to the front of the house, he discovered, to his dismay, that he did not have the keys to the Denali. More than that, he could not go into the house, or onto the porch, because the blood now dripping from his coat would contaminate the primary scene also. He could have called Warrick to ask for the keys, but that seemed too pathetic. So instead, scowling, he leaned against the car to wait.

* * *

Grissom snapped his kit shut and picked it up. "Okay, let's head back to the lab. Greg, you want to ride with the body?" 

"Sure," Greg replied easily, closing his own kit, standing, and stretching. "Man, I almost miss my chair in the lab, after sitting on my knees for an hour."

Grissom chose to ignore that and headed outside, already considering the possible implications of the evidence he had collected. There wasn't much of it. Some foreign fibers possibly from a car, a snagged piece of leather that could be from a glove, a knife. He thought of how the lack of blood indicated a secondary scene, then sighed. That always made his job harder.

"Nick?" Warrick's deep voice boomed from behind him, then the tall man pushed past him through the still-pouring rain to the other CSI.

Grissom had only glanced briefly at Nick, but now he took a closer look. His CSI's complexion was almost grey and he shivered violently. He was holding his coat, rather than wearing it, and he was soaked through.

"Why aren't you wearing your coat, man?" Warrick asked.

"I-I, uh…" Nick stammered. Grissom took three long strides and was at Nick's side, where he gently tugged the coat away from Nick, then stared, astonished, at the dark stain covering his arm and side.

"God, man, what did you do?" Warrick demanded, but Grissom cut him off.

"Warrick, unlock the car. Nick, in, now. Cath, can you find that first aid kit in the back? And Sara, you drive the other car back to the lab," he delegated, tossing his keys to Sara.

When they had complied, Warrick sat in the driver's seat, Catherine next to him, and Nick and Gris were in the back seat. Warrick turned on the heat immediately.

"What'd you do?" he repeated, as Grissom lifted Nick's shirt to get a better look at the wound.

"I-I c-compromised the s-scene. I'm s-sorry," Nick said miserably, through chattering teeth, while allowing Grissom to poke at him.

"But what happened?" Catherine asked, turning in her seat to get a better look at them as Grissom used some of the gauze from the first aid kit to mop up some of the blood.

"T-tree branch fell. Hit my sh-shoulder, and I fell on a r-rotary tiller," Nick mumbled, eyes downcast in embarrassment.

"This needs stitches," Grissom announced. Nick's eyes widened.

"I d-don't wanna go to the h-hospital. We're on a c-case," he protested. Grissom glared at him.

"I don't care if you want to," he began, but Nick interrupted.

"C-c'mon, Gris. Evidence is t-time-sensitive. J-just put a b-bandage on it, and I'll go a-after shift." Nick's eyes silently begged him to give in. Grissom glared for a moment longer, then conceded.

"Fine."

"T-there was dried b-blood on the t-tiller. I swabbed it, b-but we won't be able to g-get any other evidence off t-the tiller now," Nick said quietly. "I f-found a f-footprint too, though."

Warrick glanced in the rearview mirror at Nick in the back. "In this mess?"

"Got l-lucky, I guess."

"Sure you did," Catherine said, eyeing the large cut in his side as Grissom placed some more gauze over it.

"What'd ya'll find?" Nick drawled, closing his eyes against the pain.

"Not much. A bit of cloth, fibers, a knife." Catherine turned to face the front again.

"I found a bit of d-denim," Nick informed them, looking determinedly forward as Grissom wrapped his arm in tape. Grissom could tell that having to be helped like this was really irritating Nick, though he tried not to show it. Gris dropped his arm, then reached into the back to grab a blanket they kept in case of shock. He handed it to Nick.

"Finished," he declared, just as Warrick swung the Denali into a space in the lab parking lot. _I suppose it's too late for the blanket_.

They all clambered out of the vehicle and hurried to the back where they grabbed their evidence, then ran for the building.

"Damn rain," Grissom heard Nick mutter, and he shook his head. _You're a grown man, Nick. Quit complaining_. He stayed silent.

Once safely in the doors, in the warmth of the building, everyone, sans Nick, peeled off their drenched coats and carried them to the locker room. Nick stopped there and opened his locker, but Grissom continued on to the layout room to spread out their evidence and make a list.

To his surprise, the rest of his team joined him only moments later, including a still sopping Nick.

"Nick, why don't you change clothes, before you get hypothermia?" Catherine adopted her mothering tone.

"Don't have any other clothes in my locker," Nick grunted. "Here's the piece of denim I found." An evidence bag dropped onto the table. "And this swab of dried blood from the tiller." Another bag fell, and Nick wrapped his arms around himself to suppress a shiver.

"You should go home, Nick," Sara said. "We can take it from here."

"I'm fine," Nick said. "I can stay."

Grissom scowled. "Can we focus on the evidence, please?"The others jumped, then looked at him guiltily.

"Sure," Catherine said, and began to outline the case.


	14. Chapter 14

Nick groaned quietly, as he walked toward his bedroom, stripping his still-damp shirt from his cold skin. He had indeed stayed until the end of shift, successfully completing what he was sure no one had ever done before: a quadruple shift. _Yes_.

He was absolutely exhausted, freezing cold, and his arm and side throbbed mercilessly. He pulled on some dry clothes and contemplated getting some painkillers out of the bathroom.

The bathroom was much too far away. Rather than bother with it, he fell into bed, wrapping himself tightly in blankets to warm up. Though he expected to have trouble falling asleep, working for over twenty-four hours must have been tougher than he thought, for he fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

They all thought it was easy, that the only truly tough jobs were the CSI jobs. Sure, they got to go out into the world, got to carry guns. They caught the bad guys. They got all the credit. 

No one considered the careful procedures, fragile equipment, perfect lab conduct required in the Trace lab. No one considered how much a person had to know to effectively analyze substances.

Whenever David Hodges tried to tell them, they waved him off. But it didn't matter. They couldn't understand, but it was fine. He and Grissom were of like mind, Grissom knew how valuable Hodges was to the lab.

This was why Hodges tried not to let it get to him when the CSIs snapped at him. Warrick in particular was known for this, more so than any of the others, which is why Hodges steeled himself.

"You got the results on that denim yet, Hodges?" Warrick demanded.

"Quite cranky today, are we?" Hodges couldn't help himself.

"Where are my results?" Warrick growled.

"Okay, okay. Denim, standard for most brands of jeans."

"That's it?" Warrick sighed, disappointed.

"Well, I did find an interesting powder on the fabric," Hodges said, smiling smugly.

"What?" Warrick almost shouted.

"Geez! All right, already. Benzodiazepine, the main ingredient in Xanax," Hodges spilled.

"So maybe the killer dosed the guy with Xanax to capture him in the first place…" Warrick turned and walked out of the lab, snagging the printed results on his way.

"Yeah. You're welcome," Hodges grumbled.

* * *

Catherine strode purposefully into the DNA lab, hoping for a hit on the swabs of blood Nick had collected the day before. 

"What have you got for me?" she asked Mia. Mia pulled a paper off the printer, scanned it, then frowned.

"Sorry Cath. The guy isn't in the system," she said, handing over the paper.

"That definitely complicates things," Catherine said, glancing over the paper herself.

"Sorry," Mia said sympathetically.

"Thanks Mia," Catherine said with a quick smile as she turned to leave the DNA lab. She headed toward Grissom's office to report the results to him.

She had been the supervisor of Swing shift for a few months, before Nick's kidnapping, before all of the messiness. It was nice, having their team back together, to get back into that familiar rhythm. It did bother her a bit to have to report to a supervisor again though. It was nice being the boss for once. But she supposed it couldn't last.

"No match," she said, slapping the paper onto Grissom's desk. "Guy's not in CODIS."

"Did you think he would be?" Grissom glanced over his spectacles at her. Catherine scowled.

"It would have been nice."

"Enjoy the challenge," he advised.

"Has Nick gotten the results for that shoe print yet? And where is he, anyway? I haven't seen him all shift," Catherine commented.

"Today's his day off." Grissom stared at his computer screen, hardly paying attention to her at all. This only served to irritate her.

"And he actually took it? Anyways. The shoeprint?" She tapped her foot, trying to alert Grissom to her impatience. He didn't seem to notice. There was a long pause before he answered.

"I think Greg was handling it." Catherine turned and stalked out of Grissom's office without another word.

_A leader has to communicate. If he isn't going to do it, he ought to let someone else._ Then she stopped. _What am I thinking? It's just Grissom. He does his job better than anyone. Get a hold of yourself, Cath. _After all, it wasn't Grissom's fault that she hardly saw her daughter anymore due to her absurd hours, nor was it his fault that she got demoted from supervisor.

It was frustrating though. She and Grissom had always been the more experienced of the team, almost like the parents of a family.

If she and Grissom continued to bicker, what would happen to their team?

* * *

"Hey, Warrick!" Warrick stopped and backed up a few steps to stick his head in the layout room. Greg beckoned him to come in. 

"Yeah?" Warrick asked a little impatiently, having been on his way to check records of people buying large amounts of Xanax. Greg apparently picked up on his hurry, because he cut to the chase.

"You seen Nick around?" he queried.

"No, why?" Warrick asked, puzzled.

"I got his shoeprint hours ago. I've been paging him and calling him, but he hasn't answered." Greg waved a paper at Warrick, apparently the results of his shoe search. Warrick frowned.

"He hasn't been in this shift?"

"I guess not. No one I've talked to has seen him," Greg responded.

"I guess I'll roll over to his place, see what's up," Warrick sighed. "Could you do me a favor and get the Xanax sales records from Brass?"

"I am at your service," Greg responding, bowing with a flourish.

"Uh-huh. Picture that."

* * *

"Nick! Nick, you there?" Warrick called, banging on the door of his friend's house. No answer. 

He searched around for the spare key, finding one taped to the bottom of the mat. He removed the key and unlocked the door.

Walking into the house, Warrick continued calling his friend's name, taking in the almost annoying neatness of the house. Everything was put on shelves precisely, the kitchen counter clear, the table empty save for Nick's laptop. The lights were turned out, the only light source the little cracks of sunlight around the drawn blinds casting an eerie glow over the well-ordered rooms. He tossed his jacket on the couch, just to add a touch of messiness. He wandered down the hall, and gently pushed open the door to Nick's bedroom.

"Nick?" Warrick said softly, hiding his alarm. Nick was lying in bed, tangled in the sheets, unresponsive to Warrick's words. Warrick sat on the edge of the bed, and pushed Nick's shoulder.

Nick groaned a little and opened glassy brown eyes to stare blankly at Warrick. "'Rick?" he rasped, before breaking into a violent fit of coughing.

Warrick winced at the painful sound, as well as the grey tinge to Nick's skin. "What'd you do, man?" he murmured.

"Don't feel….so hot," Nick mumbled, gasping for breath.

"I don't doubt it," Warrick said, reaching up to put a hand to Nick's head. "Oh, God, Nick. You're burning up."

"What time is it?" Nick asked, shifting around to try to see the clock. "Work…"

"Is not something you need to be worried about," Warrick replied. "Have you been this sick the last couple days?"

"No, I'm okay. Need to go to work…" Nick muttered, sitting up. He made a face and put a hand to his stomach.

"You're not going to work, you're going to a hospital. Right now." Nick opened his mouth to argue, but was forced to duck his head and cough some more instead. Nick put his arm in front of his face to cover the coughing, and Warrick noticed the bandage on his arm, noting the dried blood and the dingy look to it. It hadn't been changed.

When Nick stopped coughing, he said "I don't need a hospital."

Warrick shook his head and grabbed Nick's arm. He peeled back the edge of the bandage to reveal a reddened cut. "This is infected."

"It's fine," Nick said, as he stood and walked across the room to the closet where he pulled out a pair of jeans and shirt, which he pulled on quickly.

Warrick was about to argue the point, when there was a loud _thump_. He and Nick looked at each other, surprised, then turned towards the door.

"You have your gun?" Nick almost whispered.

"No," Warrick said softly. "Your spare?"

"In the living room," Nick replied.

"Damn," Warrick breathed. He crept towards the door, sliding out into the hall, Nick right behind him. Slowly, they made their way down the hall to the living room.

At the end of the hall, there was a flash of motion, then...

"No se muevan!" an unfamiliar voice shouted.


	15. Chapter 15

"OK, OK!" Nick exclaimed, as he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

"Están veniendo conmigo, ahora!" The man shouted, waving the gun.

"Si, si. No tira. Lo que te quieres. Apenas, no tira." Nick risked a glance at Warrick, who looked baffled.

"Vayan! Vayan!" The man screamed, gesturing towards the door. Nick started walking, motion to Warrick that he should do the same.

Outside, the rain still poured, and the thunder rumbled ominously. They stopped in the driveway, and Nick stood, blinking the rain out his eyes. He reached up to push his soaked hair from his face, and noticed that his hand shook. He credited it to adrenaline.

"En el coche," the man said vehemently, and Nick did not hesitate to climb into the van the man pointed at.

Once the door had been slammed next to them, Warrick turned to Nick and demanded, "What the hell is going on?"

Nick just stared at him, and shook his head. "I'm not sure." Before he could say more, the driver's door opened and the small man climbed in, turning over the engine and pulling out of the driveway quickly.

Warrick and Nick sat in silence, hoping that this wasn't as bad as it seemed.

* * *

"Hay dos. Hay dos. ¿Por qué hay dos?" The small man in the driver's seat muttered to himself as he sped through the back streets of Vegas. 

Nick stayed perfectly still, trying to hear what was said, hoping for a clue as to the man's intentions.

He felt Warrick shift next to him, and glanced over at him. The other CSI was trying to remove something from his pocket, looking very nervous.

Nick touched Warrick's arm, causing his partner to glance away from the cell phone that was halfway out of his pocket. Nick shook his head. _Not yet_.

Warrick's eyes begged him do to something, but there was nothing he could do. They didn't know where they were, though Nick knew that had been driving for a while. The van was moving too quickly to risk jumping out, not to mention the blacked out windows didn't allow them to see where they would be jumping to. No, it was best to wait, for now, and look for a better opportunity.

"Yo les mataré. Pero ¿cuál primero? El amigo no es importante, pero matarle podía lastimarlo más si mato el amigo primero. Pero, matar el amigo no sea divertido. A menos que mato Él primero, para torturer el amigo. Si, si. Mataré Él primero."

Nick shivered at this. Which of them was "the friend?" Warrick, it must be Warrick. The man had come to Nick's house, not Warrick's. Nick looked at his partner again.

He watched Warrick react to his expression, watched those green eyes flood with fear. Watched his mouth open, forming the word "what?" with no sound.

Nick shook his head again, and looked away. There was no need to scare Warrick with the details right now. There was nothing they could do anyway.

* * *

The van halted abruptly, and both Warrick and Nick were flung against their seatbelts. Nick yelped a little, and Warrick looked at him quickly, seeing Nick put a hand to his side and grimace. 

The van door slid open. "Fuera del coche!" the man ordered. Warrick looked at Nick again, watching to see what to do. _Why the hell didn't I take Spanish?_

Nick slid out of the van, careful of the gun the man held. Warrick followed suit.

Once out of the van, they were pushed towards a large, abandoned-looking building. Warrick felt the gun dig into his spine and he increased his pace.

"A la izquierda," the man said, and Nick veered to the left. The entered the building through a small side door.

The medium-sized room was somewhat similar to their interrogation rooms back at the lab. It was dimly lit, with the only windows high on the walls, too high to be an escape route. The walls were made of hard cement, same as the floor below them. There was only one other door, a metal slab of a door on the left side of the room.

Warrick suppressed a shiver, feeling the chill in the air of the room, though it was much colder outside.

He and Nick stood in the center of the room, staring at the man, waiting for his next action. To their surprise, the man backed away and slammed the door shut.

_Click_. The lock slid into place. They stood, dumbfounded, for a moment, then Warrick ran to the door, and twisted the knob. It was indeed locked. He went to the other door and tried it too. Locked.

He turned back to the rest of the room, astonished to find Nick sitting against the far wall, knees drawn to his chest, and his head resting on his arms. Warrick walked over to him and sat down.

"You okay?" he asked, touching Nick's shoulder, feeling the tremors running through his body.

"Yeah," Nick whispered, without moving. Suddenly, he broke into a fit of violent coughing. After a few long moments, when he finally managed to stop, he leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

"What do we do?" Warrick asked, hating the fearful, unsure tone to his voice.

"Nothing."

"What?" Warrick demanded. Nick looked up at him, raising his eyebrows.

"What can we do, Warrick? We're in a cement room, and it's locked," Nick said, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice.

"So we figure out another way!" Warrick exclaimed, surging to his feet.

"Windows are too high, 'Rick. Taller than the two of us put together," Nick said, reading his mind.

"We could pick the lock."

"Yeah? What do you have on you?" Nick asked.

Warrick shoved his hands into his pockets, pulling out the contents. "Keys, wallet, gum…cell phone!" He flipped the phone open excitedly, then stared at it dejectedly. "No signal."

Nick's face fell. "Damn rain." Warrick nodded in agreement.

"Think we could use my credit card to pick the lock?" Warrick asked.

"Try it," Nick said, still not getting up. Warrick crossed the room to the door, and began to fiddle with the lock.

Sadly, the old credit card trick did not work. He couldn't use his keys to remove the screws of the door knob. They were stuck.

Warrick flopped down next to his friend, staring at the door. "We can't get out."

"Guess not," Nick said.

"What's he going to do?" Warrick asked. "Did he say, in the car?"

"No," Nick said softly. "He didn't."

* * *

A/N: For those of you who don't speak Spanish, I promise that it will be explained **soon**. :) 


	16. Chapter 16

Nick and Warrick sat against the wall in their prison, waiting. They didn't say anything, both too lost in their own thoughts.

_Maybe I shouldn't have lied to him. He deserves to know, doesn't he?_ Nick thought. _But, why make him more afraid? He can't do anything about it. _

His head pounded, in perfect rhythm with his throbbing hand and side. His stomach churned, and he hoped he wouldn't be sick. He'd had enough of that in the last two days.

Warrick sat next to him, statuesque, trapped in his own thoughts. Nick looked at his partner for a moment, then spoke.

"When I was five, it snowed in Texas." Warrick turned to stare at him blankly. "It snowed. My dad told me it didn't snow in Texas, but sure enough, it did. It was more ice than snow, really, but I didn't care. We had a snow day, and my brother and sisters and I had a snowball fight. By the time we went inside, we were all soaked through and my mom had to wrap us in blankets so we wouldn't freeze. The whole time she ranted about how we should have more sense than running around in the cold when we were all wet, and didn't I know to wear gloves? It was the best day I can remember."

Warrick stared at him for a moment, then seemed to understand. "When I was eight, there was so much rain one week, that they had to close the school because the roads were flooded. Some of the kids from my neighborhood and I found this hill over in the park. Wasn't a big hill, or anything, but it worked all right. We used trash can lids, and we sledded down on the mud. By the time I went home, I was so covered in mud that I almost wasn't recognizable. I got yelled at for getting dirt all over the kitchen, while I was trying to clean up. I spent quite a while scraping mud off my shoes. But it was worth it."

"You actually found a hill in the middle of this desert?" Nick asked, smiling a little.

"It was about the size of one of those slides they make for kindergarteners," Warrick said.

"You call that a hill?"

"I said it wasn't big," Warrick argued. They both laughed for a minute, then fell silent again.

"Nick?"

"Hmmm?"

"He did say, didn't he? He said what he was going to do." Warrick looked Nick in the eye.

"Yeah, he did," Nick said softly. He looked down.

"I have a right to know."

"Yeah, you do." Nick took a deep breath. "He plans to kill us."

Warrick only nodded, as if he had suspected this. "Anything else?"

"He called one of us 'he' and one of us 'the friend.' I'm guessing you're the friend."

"What'd he say?"

"He's going to kill me first, to make it more interesting to kill you," Nick whispered, finding himself unable to look at Warrick. "I'm sorry."

"He won't kill us. We'll get out." Nick looked up.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

* * *

Grissom poked his head into the break room and saw Greg, listening to earphones Grissom could hear from across the room. 

"Greg!" he yelled. The young CSI looked around, startled, then pulled the ear buds from his ears.

"Yeah?"

"Did you get any further on that shoeprint yet?" Grissom asked.

"Uh, no. Nick never answered my page," Greg said apologetically. "He said to wait for him…"

"Where is he? And where's Warrick?" Grissom demanded, feeling a bit frustrated at the lack of progress.

"Warrick went to Nick's house about two hours to see what was up." Greg refilled his coffee cup, then gestured towards another. Grissom shook his head. "I've been looking through the sales records for Xanax. No very huge orders, but I wrote down the names of frequent buyers."

"Good. We can check on those." Grissom paused for a moment, then frowned. "Two hours? Has he called or anything?"

"Nope. I tried calling him, but the storm is messing with the signal."

"Why don't you head over to Nick's place, while I get Brass and go knock on some doors?" Grissom suggested, taking the list from Greg.

"Okay," Greg said, turning to leave.

"And Greg?"

"Yeah?" Greg faced Grissom.

"Just to be on the safe side, treat it like a crime scene."

* * *

Warrick walked back and forth in their prison, unable to sit still any longer. Nick watched him wearily from the floor. 

"How do we get out? How?" Warrick asked.

"Dunno. Windows are out, doors are out." Nick broke into another coughing fit.

"Where is this, anyways?" Warrick asked when Nick had stopped.

"Edge of town, I guess," Nick replied. "Didn't look like there was much out here."

Warrick walked faster. "How can you just sit there? Just…not do anything?" he demanded. Nick stared at him. "Why don't you care that we're stuck here?"

"I care. I just don't know what we can do yet." Nick looked away, staring at the floor. "You should save your energy."

Warrick stopped for a moment to think about that, then decided to ignore it. "Nothing to save it for."

"Maybe when he comes back, we'll have a chance to get away," Nick suggested.

"When he comes back? How do you know he will? How do you know he isn't just going to leave us here?" Warrick almost yelled. Nick just shook his head.

"He won't just leave us –" he started, but Warrick cut him off.

"How do you know? What aren't you telling me?"

"I told you what I know!"

"How do I know that? How do I know you aren't keeping stuff from me?"

"I wouldn't do that!" Nick protested.

"You have been for months!" Warrick yelled. He froze. _Did I just say that?_

"That's not fair," Nick said softly. He looked up at Warrick.

"I – " _Bang!_ The door burst open and the man hurried inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

"¡No se muevan!" he shouted. Warrick and Nick froze, warily eying the gun in the man's hand.

"Tú, tú estás veniendo conmigo, ahora," the man said, pointing at Nick.

"No quieres hacer este. Por favor…" Nick said, standing up slowly, holding his hands out submissively.

"¡Silencio!" the man screamed.

"¡Está bien! Está bien. Haré lo que quieres. Pero, déjelo ir, por favor," Nick tried to reason, hoping the man would at least let Warrick go.

"¡Silencio!" the man shouted again, swinging his gun through the air, sending the butt of it crashing into the side of Warrick's head. Warrick crumpled to the ground.

"Warrick!" Nick yelled, as the gun was turned on him.

"Vaya! Vaya!" He gestured towards the door. Nick cast a glance at Warrick's motionless form, wishing to go help his friend, but knowing it would be a bad move for both of them.

"OK." He was pushed through the door, with the barrel of the gun digging into his spine. They walked through a labyrinth of hallways, so many that Nick lost track of where they were. Finally, they entered a small room, overcrowded with only two little chairs. Nick felt his breath catch and froze.

"Te sienta." Nick was pushed into one of the chairs. "No se mueva." Nick's arms were wrenched behind his back, his hands bound together tightly. His legs were then bound to the chair. He struggled, but the ropes were only tied tighter.

He watched the man work in silence, not knowing what else to do. Finally, the man finished and sat down across from him.

Nick stared into the black eyes of his kidnapper, though he had to look down to do so, as the man was quite small. Nevertheless, there was something a little intimidating about him, perhaps the wicked grin, or the cold glint in his eye.

They continued to stare for a long moment, and then the man spoke.

"Me llamo Mateo Parras. Mucho gusto, Señor Stokes."


	17. Chapter 17

Warrick's car was parked out on the street when Greg drove up, Nick's truck in the driveway. Greg pulled his car up behind Warrick's and climbed out, grabbing his kit, and feeling slightly ridiculous as he did so. He knew if they were there, he would never hear the end of it.

Walking up to the front door, the first thing Greg noticed was a smudge of blood on the door knob, followed by the scratches all around the keyhole. The lock had been picked.

He pulled on some gloves and swabbed the blood, capping the sample and bagging it before taking a picture of the scratches. Then he turned the knob and the door swung open.

"Hello?" he called into the darkness of the house. No answer. He took a few steps in, and noticed Warrick's jacket flung across the couch. Nothing else was out of place.

We walked through the rest of the house, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. However, when he returned to the living room, the new angle allowed him to see the slightly darker spots on the carpet. They were wet. _Foot prints?_

He measured carefully, seeing that it was a size nine shoe, and thus could not be his own or Warrick's. Someone else had been here.

* * *

Little things began to penetrate the dark fog. Little stabs of pain in his head, little chills from the cold. He moved his head a little, trying to clear it. 

Warrick opened his eyes to find himself lying on his side on the cold cement floor of an unfamiliar room. _What –?_

Suddenly it all came flooding back: the rid in the van, imprisonment, the Spanish-speaking man. Warrick sat up quickly, wincing as his head throbbed more insistently.

Disregarding the pain, he glanced around, looking for Nick, but his partner was absent. _Uh-oh…_

Warrick checked his watch, ignoring the shaking in his hands, to see how long he had been out. About twenty minutes, he estimated. He'd be okay then.

He wondered if the rest of the team had realized they were missing yet, if there was even any evidence at Nick's house. He wondered how long they had for the team to find them, wishing there was some way he could help them. He flipped open his phone again, frustrated at the 'no signal' that flashed across the screen. _Damn it!_

He sighed and stumbled over to sit against the wall, and wait. Warrick was afraid for Nick, afraid for both of them, really, but mostly right now for Nick. Who knew that that guy was doing to him?

* * *

It had been almost four hours since Nick had been taken from the relative safety of their room, and Warrick was more than a little freaked out. 

He checked his cell phone for about the thousandth time, hoping the storm had cleared enough to allow him a signal. No go.

As he was jamming the phone back into his pocket, the door to the room burst open and Nick was shoved roughly in, before the door was slammed shut again.

Nick collapsed onto the floor, seemingly unable to stand on his own.

"Nick!" Warrick scrambled over to his partner, gently rolling him onto his back. "Oh my God."

Nick's face was badly bruised; one of his eyes was swollen almost shut. There were numerous cuts, the worst of which above his eye, bleeding profusely. Nick's shirt hung off of him, torn and tattered. Deep purple and black bruises covered his ribcage and abdomen. A long gash ran down his ribs, and Warrick could see white bone gleaming through. Nick's arm, also bloodied, was at a weird angle, a very obvious break in the forearm.

"Nick! Nicky, talk to me. C'mon man," Warrick begged.

"Hey, bro," Nick said weakly, then began coughing.

"What did he do, man? What did he want?" Warrick asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

"I don't know what he wants. He didn't say much…" Nick trailed off. He closed his eyes. "Hey Rick?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you….back up a little?"

"Sure, bro…" Warrick said, complying. Nick opened his eyes again.

"Thanks." Pause. "How's your head?"

"What?"

"Your head," Nick repeated, then tried to push himself into a sitting position with his good arm, before Warrick grabbed his shoulder and held him still.

"You shouldn't move," he said.

"It looks worse than it is," Nick protested, his words chased by a fit of coughing that wracked his whole body and left him gasping for breath.

"Yeah. Picture that," Warrick said sarcastically, trying not to sound as worried as he was.

"Seriously, man, let me up." Nick slowly sat up, putting a hand to his abdomen as he did.

"Stomach hurt?" Warrick asked, frowning. _Internal damage?_

"Nah, it's okay. Your head?"

"It's fine."

They sat for a minute, considering their circumstances.

"How long have we been here?" Nick asked, breaking the silence.

"About 12 hours. They've got to know by now, right?" Warrick wondered.

"'Course," Nick said trying to sound reassuring.

"What if they don't come?" Warrick asked under his breath.

"They will." Loud coughing.

"How are they even gonna know?" Warrick continued, disregarding his friend's words, feeling the panic building.

"They'll know," Nick insisted, though he looked less sure.

"There's no way they could find us here."

"Stop it! Just stop it!" Nick yelled suddenly, then broke into a fit of coughing. Warrick stared at him.

When he had finished, Nick glared at Warrick. "Don't talk like that. Just don't."

"Sorry." Nick nodded then scooted toward the closest wall, closing his eyes as he leaned against it. Warrick watched him for a moment, before beginning to speak.

"She didn't believe me, when I said it. She said she knew me, and that it wasn't true, what I said. But it was. I wouldn't have made it. I would've pulled the trigger and ended it a long time before you even thought of it."

"Stop it! Don't – Just-just don't!" Nick shouted. "I don't want to talk about it!"

"You can't talk about it. That's what you mean. You can't. You can't even think about it. Why is that so hard to admit, huh? Afraid no one will believe you're a superhero if you have a weakness?" Warrick lashed out angrily, relishing the stricken look on Nick's face.

"It's not – That's not – I –" Nick stuttered.

"You still can't admit it. Just say it, Nick! Just say it!"

Nick turned to the side and threw up on the floor, then backed away, wiping his mouth. Warrick looked at the ground, already feeling guilty.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Nick mumbled.

"No, it's not."

"Just forget it, Warrick."

"Damn it, Nick! Stop saying everything is okay when it's not!"

"It is though. You're freaked. I get it."

"Damn right I'm freaked! How the hell are you so calm?" Warrick demanded. Nick just shook his head. "I mean it, Nick. How are you not freaking out?"

"Experience, maybe?"

"Yeah, like this is something you could get used to. Seriously."

"How many times have you had a gun pointed at you? I mean by someone who actually wants to kill you?" Nick asked.

"None," Warrick answered, already regretting his words.

"How many times have you been pushed out a window, or stalked?"

"None."

"No. It's always me. Wackos are drawn to me, I guess. Maybe it's just fun to screw with me. I don't know." He stared at the floor. "I just know that it's always me."


	18. Chapter 18

Police cars swarmed Nick's neighborhood as the Grave shift processed. There were cops banging on every door within five blocks of Nick's house, questioning the inhabitants, completely disregarding the late hour. It had already been almost a full day since Warrick and Nick had disappeared, and Las Vegas' finest weren't too worried about niceties.

Grissom and Catherine processed the house as thoroughly as possible, looking for any sort of sign to point them towards their guys. Sara was at the lab processing the evidence as it came in, via Greg who spent his time delivering things back and forth.

Despite their great effort, they were no closer to finding their CSIs than they had been twenty hours ago. Even Grissom was beginning to doubt the usefulness of evidence in this case.

Catherine was on her hands and knees, searching for any sort of foreign fiber on the carpet of Nick's living room, when a shrill ringing sound pierced the air of the house. She tugged her phone out of its holder and flipped it open.

"Yeah."

"The blood from the door knob is a match to the scene Nick's been processing," Sara said.

"Which scene?"

"The serial."

* * *

Warrick watched his friend carefully as the hours dragged on. They had treated Nick's injuries to the best of their abilities, but there was little they were capable of doing under these circumstances. 

The shirt Nick was wearing was shredded to the point that it was useless as a garment anyways, so they had used it to stop the flow of blood from his side. The problem with this, though, was that now Nick was shirtless, and the room they were in didn't exactly have a heater. In the hopes of being a bit warmer, they sat together against the wall.

"Nick?"

"Hmmm?" Loud coughing. That had been happening more and more frequently.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." More coughing. "How long has it been?"

"About a day." Warrick glanced at him. "When did you start coughing like that?"

"When I got home from last shift." Cough. "It's not a big deal."

"You were out in the rain for a while."

Cough. "Yeah."

"You could have pneumonia."

"Nah. Just a cold or something."

"Speaking of which, you're shivering," Warrick pointed out.

"So are you."

"Not as bad."

"You're biased," Nick accused.

"So are you." Conversation ceased again, the silence broken only by Nick's coughing and ragged breathing.

"And that cut is infected," Warrick said almost accusingly.

"It's fine."

"Don't you know to change the bandages?"

"Yes, thanks _Mom_," Nick shot back. The don't-mess-with-me vibe he was trying to give was hopelessly diffused by yet more coughing. He coughed so hard, Warrick, thinking he must be coughing up a lung, turned and put his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"You okay?" Nick finally stopped coughing, and spat on the floor. "Nick?"

"Warrick…" Nick said, staring at the floor.

"Is that…?"

"I think…"

"Blood?" Warrick stared at his friend in alarm, as Nick wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stared at the smear of red across his pale skin. He suddenly fell to the side, forcing Warrick to grab him by the shoulders.

"Oh my God," Warrick said, holding Nick up.

"Sorry. I got dizzy for a minute. I think I'm okay," Nick said, leaning more against the wall, then backtracked as Warrick gave him an incredulous look. "I mean, it doesn't hurt, or anything. Or, not more than it did before."

"Before?" Warrick practically yelled. "What's wrong?"

"It's okay. Just…my chest aches some. Not too bad."

"And you have a fever," Warrick added.

"I do?"

"Yeah, you do," Warrick said, touching Nick's forehead again. "Pretty high, I think."

"I don't feel too bad. Just cold."

"God, you're probably going into shock," Warrick said, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of it sooner. "Lay down."

"Huh?"

"Lay down. Something about blood flow or something. Just do it." Nick slowly complied, careful of his broken arm and aching ribs.

"Okay. Lying down. Now what?"

"We should check your blood pressure. With the infection from that cut, it could get too low." Warrick looked around blankly.

"How do you think you're going to do that?" Nick asked, before breaking into another fit of coughing, rolling to one side to spit out more blood.

"I- I don't know," Warrick mumbled. He grabbed Nick's wrist and checked his pulse. "Your pulse is high."

"I'm not high," Nick muttered.

"That's not what I said. Don't tell me you're delirious."

"No, I'm not," Nick said sullenly. "Floor's cold."

Warrick sighed and sat back. "How'd you get so sick?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know. I felt fine, for a while. Adrenaline, I guess. It just…got worse recently." Nick looked up at Warrick.

"Nick…damn it, why'd you let me yell at you when you were so sick?" Warrick cursed. Nick stared at him for a minute, then started laughing, a laugh which quickly became another coughing fit. "Damn it, Nick!"

"S-sorry," Nick gasped.

"It isn't funny. I was being a total ass and you sat there and took it even though you felt lousy already."

"Stop it, Warrick. There's nothing you can do about it now. Let it go." Warrick sighed and put his head on his arms.

"How much longer are we going to be stuck here, you think?" he asked, trying to distract himself from the increasingly overwhelming sense of helplessness.

"Don't know. They gotta find us soon, right? Too good at processing not to," Nick said, smiling a little.

"I guess." Warrick jumped up. "Damn it! I can't just sit here! I've got to do _something_!"

Nick coughed some more, then said, "It's gonna be okay, man. They'll find us."

"How can you just sit there and take this!? It's you who gets sick, you who gets injured, and you're still sitting there saying that it's gonna be okay! Don't you get tired of it?" Warrick demanded.

Nick remained quiet. He coughed for a minute, grimacing as he held his ribs. Then he looked up a Warrick and said, "Yeah. I do."


	19. Chapter 19

"Warrick?" Nick rasped weakly. He coughed painfully, spitting out more blood.

"Yeah?" Warrick crawled over closer to him.

"How long…now?"

"About forty hours." Warrick put his hand to Nick's head again. "Your fever is worse."

Nick coughed some more. "I had….pneumonia…when I was….ten."

"Feel a lot like this?"

"Yeah." He coughed some more, then said. "My brother…was mad at me…because I didn't…have to…go to…school."

"Not much for academics?"

"Nah. Total…gear head…never was good….at school."

"You shouldn't talk, Nick. Your breathing is getting worse." Warrick looked at him sympathetically.

"You talk…to me, then." Nick coughed some more, holding his chest tightly.

"What about?"

"Any…anything." Nick coughed even harder, rolling over onto his side as he did. Warrick put his hand on his friend's back, not knowing what else to do. Nick threw up again, then spat out more blood.

"God, Nick…" Warrick said worriedly.

"It's….fine."

"Yeah. Picture that. Okay, um…remember how everyone was amazed that I could make classical references? Back when we had that case with that magician?"

"Y-yeah."

"When I was in high school, I got really into all that mythology stuff. Spent all my time reading about it. Got made fun of like you wouldn't believe. Didn't help that I had the coke bottle glasses, big feet, all that."

Nick laughed weakly, then coughed some more.

"Sorry, I shouldn't make you laugh. Anyways, one of the best stories was about Dedalus and his son Icarus. Remember, that tattoo guy mentioned it? Dedalus made this maze for the King, a labyrinth so great, no one could escape. And the King put him and Icarus inside it, to test it. They had no food or water, they were trapped – Nick?" Warrick stopped, watching as his friend's breathing became more labored.

"I'm….okay."

"If you're sure…So, Dedalus, being this great architect, built wings from feather and wax for him and his son. They strapped 'em on, and got ready. Then Dedalus says to Icarus, "Don't fly too low, or the wind won't be under your wings and you won't make it. But don't fly too high, or your wings will melt.' Icarus agreed, and so they started to flap their wings and fly. They flew up out of the labyrinth, and started out, over the sea, to make it off the island. Well, Icarus got a little full of himself, thinkin' how great he was that he could fly, and he started flying higher. Dedalus called to him, yellin' at him to come back down, but Icarus ignored him, kept flying higher. As he flew higher and higher, he began to feel the heat of the sun, and then he felt a drop of wax hit his shoulder. His wings started to melt. Kid's scared, he yells to his dad, but there's nothing to be done. His wings melt and he falls, down to the rocks below."

Nick's breath caught. "Th-then what?"

"Dedalus kept going, 'cause he knew there was nothing he could do. He made it off the island, back to the mainland of Greece."

"But….Icarus?"

"Died, instantly."

Nick coughed again, wrapping his arms around himself. When he stopped, he said, "That's how it….always is."

"What?"

"You're okay….until you try…to escape."

"What do you mean by that?" Warrick asked concernedly.

"Nothing hurts as much…until you try…to make it…better."

* * *

"What do we do?" Sara demanded, almost hysterical.

"We process." Grissom barely glanced at her.

"We have nothing to go on!"

"Sara, calm down. We'll find them," Catherine said, as she walked into Grissom's office. "I found some fibers at the house, match to the denim Nick found at the previous scene."

"That doesn't help!"

"Sara! Get a hold of yourself," Grissom ordered sternly. "You can't help anyone like this."

Sara blinked back the tears that burned her eyes and blocked her throat. _What is it about Nick? Why is it always him? Him and Warrick, always in trouble. Damn it, why can't they stay safe?

* * *

_

Warrick's voice had gone hoarse long ago, and Nick was only semi-conscious. It had been over two days, and as far as Warrick could tell, their situation was only getting worse. Nick was much sicker than he had been earlier, and both of them were freezing in that room.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on. No signal. He turned it off again, to save battery, and sat back against the wall again.

_Thud_. The door opened loudly and slammed closed. Warrick looked up in alarm to see the little Hispanic man.

Nick stirred. "Parras?" he croaked.

Parras didn't say anything, moving quickly towards Nick.

"Hey! Hey, stop!" Warrick shouted. Parras jerked a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Warrick.

"Silencio." He knelt next to Nick, keeping the gun trained on Warrick, and pulled something out of his pocket.

Nick began to struggle at the sight of the needle, but at Parras' next words, he stilled.

"No se mueva o tu amigo morirá."

"¿Qué es ese?" Nick asked weakly. Parras didn't say anything, only jabbing the needle into Nick's arm quickly.

"No, stop!" Warrick shouted.

_Bang!_ Warrick cringed as he felt the bullet whistle past his head.

"Warrick, don't!" Nick shouted, then began coughing again. Parras raised his eyebrows, smiled crookedly, and backed away.

He paused at the door, and stared directly at Warrick. "Lo siento. Creo que tu amigo va a morir." He turned and left Warrick to kneel at Nick's side, wondering how much longer they could last.

* * *

"What did he say?" Warrick asked.

"I don't know," Nick mumbled, shivering. It was freezing in this room.

"Yes, you do. You're fluent in Spanish. What did he say?" Warrick demanded.

"He said if I didn't stay still, he would kill you."

"What did he say to me?"

"Nothing," Nick said, looking away.

"You're lying. What did he say?!"

"He said he's sorry." Nick still avoided looking at Warrick, not wanting to tell him the rest.

"That's not all he said, is it?" Nick could feel Warrick's eyes boring into him.

"No," he whispered, then coughed hard. His lungs burned like they were full of razors, his breath only coming in short little gasps. He tasted the warm, metallic taste of his blood, which he spat out.

"Nick…you have to tell me. C'mon."

"He said he thinks I'm gonna die," Nick said, finally meeting Warrick's eyes just in time to see the shock and fear that darkened them. "I feel okay."

"No, you don't, so quit sayin' it," Warrick snapped. He grabbed Nick's wrist to check his pulse.

Nick sat up, grabbing his chest as he coughed again.

"Nick, lie down."

"No. I've been…lyin' down for…hours. It isn't….helping."

"It ain't hurtin' either," Warrick argued.

"I don't…want to lie….there like that….any more!" Nick gasped.

"Fine. Just try to relax, okay? Please."

"Yeah." Nick was quiet.

"My phone still isn't working." Nick remained silent.

"But it kinda looks like the storm's lettin' up," Warrick pointed at the window.

"Why…don't you…trust me?"

"What? I trust you."

"No, you…don't."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You don't…listen to…anything I…say."

"Nick…you're out of it, man."

"No, I'm…not. Stop…dismissing me!"

"You're paranoid!"

"No!" Nick lurched to his feet and stumbled a few steps away before dropping to his knees again.

"Nick…"

"Leave me…alone."


	20. Chapter 20

_He had told Catherine that all he could remember afterwards was sitting in his room waiting for his mom to come home. It wasn't true. _

_Nick sat in the middle of his bed, knees drawn up to his chest, rocking back and forth. He blinked back the tears that ached to fall. He wanted his mom, wanted her to hold him and tell him it was going to be okay. _

_He felt the warm, wet slide down his cheek and he bit his lip until he tasted blood. He wasn't going to cry. Big boys don't cry. He wiped at his face roughly with his fist. Big boys don't cry. _

_He stared at the sliver of yellow light under his door, afraid of and wishing for a shadow to appear there. He wanted his mom, but she wasn't there. _

_Nick didn't know how long he sat in the dark of his room waiting before something blocked that light. The door knob jiggled, but it did not open. _

_"Nick?" The familiar voice called out and his heart leapt. _

_He jumped off his bed and pulled the chair from under the knob, bursting through the door and flinging himself into his mom's arms. _

_"Nicky, what's wrong?" she asked, kneeling to hug him. He said nothing, only buried his face deeper in the soft fabric of her dress. _

_"Did you have a bad dream?" _

_He still fought to hold back the tears and whispered, "It was real." _

_"Oh, Nicky. Dreams aren't real. It's okay. It's going to be okay." She held him tighter still, but it wasn't what he wanted. The words just weren't enough._

_She put him to bed, where he lay staring at his ceiling, unable to be in this bed where…_

_He grabbed his pillow and moved to the floor, where he finally slept. _

_The next morning, he sat at the kitchen table, quietly chewing his cereal, his brother and sisters bickering around him. He watched quietly, as they fought over the cereal, the milk, the funnies in the paper. _

_"Do you want some orange juice, Nick?" his father asked. Nick nodded. His father poured it for him and set it in front of him. _

_He wanted it, reached out, and then it was gone, splashed across the table making a large pool that spread to everyone as though contagious. _

_"Watch out!" someone shrieked. He only stared, watched as everyone else leapt back, barely feeling the liquid cover him, coating him in sticky messiness. _

_"Stupid Nick," his brother muttered, pulling a comic book from the spilled juice. _

_Just like that, Nick was up, out of his seat, standing in the middle of the kitchen. His breath came in great gasps, his hands clenched into fists that stayed uselessly at his sides, unable to find something to defend him from. _

_"Nicky, it's just a little spill," his mother said, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close. _

_"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he sobbed as the tears finally splashed down his front like a waterfall that couldn't wash away the mistakes.

* * *

_

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Nick gasped suddenly, and Warrick took his head from his hands to stare at him.

"It's okay," he said.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Nick continued, ignoring him completely. His eyes were closed tight, his hands balled into fists that shook as his knuckles turned white.

"Nick!" No response. Warrick rushed over to his friend, grabbing his shoulder, forcing Nick to face him. "Nick!"

Nick opened his eyes and stared at Warrick unseeingly, his eyes almost black with fear. "I'm sorry."

"Nick! Nick!" Warrick felt a stab of fear as Nick closed his eyes and folded in on himself. "No, no, no."

He grabbed Nick and forced him to remain still, feeling, as he did, the tremors wracking his friend's body. "C'mon man."

Nick uttered one last "I'm sorry," before falling silent again, going limp in Warrick's hands.

* * *

Brass had already put out a broadcast about Warrick and Nick. He'd searched for the van Archie had seen on traffic footage. He'd pulled his people off their other cases, instructing them to give their full attention to this. 

He had talked to Grissom about what was going on. Two days, Grissom had said. Two days this killer kept his prey alive. It had been two and a half. They could only hope that the man wasn't sticking to a pattern.

Catherine and Sara were processing like crazy, Greg was all over the place trying to help. Grissom was holed up in his office, puzzling. Everyone doing their best to find the guys.

He himself was driving around Las Vegas looking for something, anything that might lead him to his guys. Brass didn't know how much good this was doing; all he knew was that he'd be damned if he didn't do something.

* * *

Warrick paced nervously again, keeping an eye on Nick who tossed and turned on the floor, his breathing still broken by heavy coughing. 

When Nick had just passed out a few hours earlier, Warrick had nearly had a heart attack. But Nick's pulse had remained at the same rate it had been, which was rather too high, but he'd take high over none any day. His friend had not yet awoken, but had at least begun showing signs of life.

Warrick worried over what Nick had been injected with, building a mental list of symptoms in his head. _Paranoia, hallucinations, high pulse…_ Too many possibilities.

He was afraid that their time was running out. Nick couldn't keep going for much longer. Probably not for more than a few hours. Hell, he himself couldn't keep going like this for much longer.

He thought about Nick's kidnapping in the summer, being buried alive. He figured it must have been worse than this, being alone and in such a small space. But he could probably draw some comparisons too.

It was true, what he said about not being able to take that. He couldn't take this not knowing, it was eating him alive. He focused his thoughts on Nick, because if he thought of anything else, he would fall apart.

But the way things were going, it looked as though he might anyway.


	21. Chapter 21

_Click. He whirled about to find himself staring into the very depths of universe, a vast black hole that absorbed all light and energy. The barrel of a gun. _

_"Yes. That's what I killed her with." His heart slid up into his throat and hammered mercilessly at his Adam's apple, threatening to beat his vocal cords into submission. _

_"Jason was in Reno. I came here to tell Fay that we would be together again one day." He swallowed hard and in the brief absence of the beating, his vocal cords worked together to choke out a few words. _

_"Mrs. Hendler, put the gun down." He tried to look calm, in charge, but already his body shook with the force of adrenaline pounding its way through his veins, his vision spun around the central point of that gun. He knew she could see it, see the fear radiating from him, undermining his authority. _

_"Do you know he was engaged to me when he met her?" she asked, ignoring his order. Tears sparkled in her eyes like the tiniest bit of winter sunlight on the surface of a lake, cold and too bright. _

_"There was blood…everywhere. No one else could see it, but I knew it was there." He could see it too, but it wasn't Fay's. It was his own, splattered across the walls and the lacquered floor, sticky and bright, neat patterns and messy mistakes. _

_"A dead body is so heavy." He felt himself being pulled along the floor, his shoulder aching as his clothes smeared his blood over the floor all the way to the garage, where he was hauled roughly into the back of a car. _

_"Mrs. Hendler, I'm a good listener." He pushed the images away, swallowed to push his heart back down into his chest, hoping it will let him speak long enough to convince her. "You've got to give me the gun." _

_He thought for a second that it had worked, saw the slight softening to her eyes. She didn't want to kill him any more than he wanted to be killed. _

_"I can't!" she cried and the illusion shattered like a dropped glass, sending sharp fragments in every direction to cut everything into pieces that couldn't fit back together no matter how hard he tried to make them. _

_She whispered, as the light left her eyes, "I'm sorry."_

_"No, wait!" he begged. Everything blurs around him as he racked his brain for something, anything to save him from this, but found nothing but memories he wished he had forgotten. _

_"But you arrested my husband," she said, her voice rationalizing, convincing herself that this was the only way. _

_"Wait!" He shouted desperately, feeling the band of salty tears where his eyelashes met his cheeks, knowing that it was going to be over and that he wouldn't be caught dead crying. _

_"Mrs. Hendler." The gun was no longer pointed at him and he looked up to see Grissom holding his gun out delicately. "Nick, don't move" the order was barked at him, and he froze, save for the shivers running through his body, the shaking of his legs, his heavy breaths. _

_Grissom's mouth moved, but no sound came out, not over the roaring in his ears, the screams of everything inside him that he was almost dead. _

_He saw the gun lowered, and he turned, his most vulnerable side now the tears that wouldn't stop pouring from his eyes, no matter how hard he rubbed at them. _

_"You okay, Nick?" Grissom asked, and Nick was forced to turn. _

_"Yeah," he said, hearing his voice break like it did when he was little. Grissom nodded and turned away. _

_Nick snapped off his gloves, the sharp noise pulling him back to reality. He placed his hand on his hip and frowned, bit his lip, angry at himself for being so weak. _

_He stuffed the gloves into a bag and walked out of the house, climbed into his truck and drove home. Didn't stop at the lab, didn't tell anyone where he was going, just drove himself home in a haze of confusion and desperation._

_He found himself sitting on a chair in his living room, staring into space, utterly drained. Despite his exhaustion, his brain muttered annoyingly, still processing what he didn't want to understand. _

_Everyone wished for a second chance when they died. He guessed he had just gotten his.

* * *

_

Nick mumbled to himself in his semiconscious state as Warrick watched. It had been an hour now, since Nick had been injected with whatever it was, and things were only going downhill.

Warrick wanted to lean in, listen closer to what Nick said, as he wondered what it was that Nick was so afraid of. But on the other hand, it wasn't his right to know, if Nick didn't want him to.

So he sat, and he watched, and he waited. He checked his watch every couple of minutes, cracked his knuckles, tugged at his shirt. In essence, he fidgeted nervously, waiting to see what he should do next.

"Wait!" Nick shouted suddenly, causing Warrick to jump.

"Nick?" No use. Nick couldn't hear him. He pushed some hair back from his friend's forehead, grimacing at the heat emanating from him.

Nick began mumbling again, turning away from Warrick, coughing roughly.

Warrick glanced at his watch. Another two minutes had ticked by. He checked his cell phone. No signal.

He sighed and stood to pace again, periodically stopping to check Nick's pulse. He was surprisingly calm, he thought, given the situation. Certainly he was much calmer than he was before.

_Nick was right, I guess. Nothing I can do by being freaked. They'll find us. Just gotta wait it out.

* * *

_

"Grissom!" Archie yelled from the AV lab. "I found it!"

Grissom dashed into the lab, standing behind Archie's chair to look at the screen.

"Right there, see? Silver van, tinted windows?"

"Can you get a license on it?" Archie's fingers danced across the keys, gracefully tapping out commands.

"There. XMN 05Z." Archie glanced up at Grissom. "It's a company van, from the Clark County Electricity. Usually meter readers use them."

"Thanks, Archie." Grissom left the AV lab, already on his cell phone, calling Brass.

"The license is XMN 05Z."

_"I'll put out an APB on it,"_ Brass said. Grissom thanked him and hung up quickly, already dialing again.

"Hello, operator? I need the number of Clark County Electric."


	22. Chapter 22

_Nick pulled on his gloves carefully and pulled open the cabinet. A small basket resided inside, full of discarded articles. _

_He rummaged through it, shifting things around, then felt something thin and slippery under his gloves. He tugged on it and it came free. _

_A plastic glove, stained red. It had to be him. _

_There was a soft _thump_ behind him, and he turned, looked up, only to see a blur of black. He stood quickly, put his hands up, but already a firm pressure was against his chest and he was tipping back, stumbling. _

_His back hit something hard that crumbled and gave way, and then there was nothing nothing nothing under him. The air roared past him, he closed his eyes as the glass rained down, and then pain exploded in his head. _

_He lay still, trying to focus, the edges of his vision were being encroached upon by darkness. _

_"Nick!" he heard from far away, so far it echoed and distorted like the calls on a phone with bad reception, reverberating though his throbbing skull. _

_He closed his eyes and succumbed to the darkness that swallowed him whole. _

_It was minutes, hours, days later when the darkness left him, trickling away like water, leaving only random drops that clung to his eyelashes, making his eyelids too heavy to open. _

_A gentle tugging on the back of his hand, a whirring something in his ear, the scratchy blanket covering him told him he was in a hospital. _

_Slowly, slowly, he pried his eyes open, only to close them again at all the light. _

_"Damn it. Grissom, this guy was right there. I could've had him." His friend's voice was distant and quiet; he wasn't sure it was real. _

_"You helped out Nick," another familiar voice said. "It was the right thing to do."_

_He agreed wholeheartedly with that voice, but he didn't say anything, couldn't say anything. _

_"Doesn't feel like the right thing." Warrick's voice was bitter, angry, it stung painfully. Nick felt a pang of sadness that Warrick thought it wasn't right to help him. _

_"You know, Nick was alone. The stalker could have killed him and didn't." Catherine's voice stated. No one was going to refute Warrick's statement?_

_"Yeah, I wonder why," Grissom said. "Let's go back over there."_

_"I'm going with you," Warrick affirmed determinedly. Yeah, to get away from me, Nick thought. _

_"No, no. You need to calm down a little. Talk to Nick when he wakes up," Grissom ordered. _

_He didn't understand this. Didn't understand why no one argued with Warrick, why no one thought it was right to help him. Maybe he didn't deserve to be helped.

* * *

_

"Damn it. Grissom, this guy was right there. I could've had him." Warrick froze as his own words from years ago were uttered quietly in someone else's voice, echoing through the dark, damp room.

"What?" he asked, though he knew Nick couldn't answer him.

"Doesn't feel like the right thing." Warrick felt the familiar ache begin in the pit of his stomach, spreading through the rest of his body. He stared at the look of hurt on Nick's face, feeling the hurt himself, wishing he had never said that. He hadn't meant it.

He was upset, afraid, and guiltier than sin. He wanted the problem to be that the stalker was still out there. That wasn't the problem, and he knew it.

"Nick? I didn't mean it." Nick coughed up more blood. "Nick? C'mon, listen to me. I didn't mean any of that. You have to believe me. Please," he begged.

"Don't deserve…" Nick muttered.

"What, Nick? What?" Warrick asked, desperate to know what had happened to Nick that he found so unjust that he would say he didn't deserve it.

"Don't deserve help…" Nick twisted away from Warrick, curling in on himself, trembling on the cold cement floor.

Warrick sat back, shocked. He had thought that Nick thought he hadn't deserved something bad…not that he didn't deserve something he needed.

"Nick…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

* * *

_"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."_ A slow smiled curved his lips, playing across his features. It was almost too perfect. 

Mateo laughed a little to himself, as he watched _el amigo_ slam his fists against the rough wall, yelling in frustration.

_Él_ was lying on the floor, writhing and murmuring to himself. _El amigo_ was panicking, wandering around like a caged tiger, unable to help _Él_.

There was nothing they could do, not now. They couldn't escape, they couldn't survive.

He laughed again. _Es perfecto_.

* * *

"The vehicle is used by Mateo Parras," Grissom said into his phone, before rattling off an address. "He was also on our Xanax sales list." 

"I'll roll on over there and see what I can find," Brass replied, snapping his phone closed and making an illegal U-turn, reaching for his radio.

Upon arriving at Parras' run-down little shack of a house, Brass had backup. They were just pulling up as he did.

He got out of his car quickly, walking up to the front door. He rapped on it sharply, one hand already on his gun. No answer.

"LVPD, open up!" he called, but still, no response. _Screw it_.

He turned the knob and pushed the door hard, and to his surprise, it swung open to reveal a grubby little living room scattered with magazines, cigarette butts, and empty beer bottles.

Brass wandered through the rest of the house, finding no one, and nothing, save for the garbage that littered the dingy, grey carpeting.

He was on his way out when he spotted something sticking out of a drawer in the kitchen. In a house like this, it didn't seem out of place at all, but he couldn't be too careful.

Pulling the drawer open, he plucked a piece of photographic paper out of the drawer, turning it over and staring. Nick Stokes stared back at him.


	23. Chapter 23

_Nick picked up the bottle of pills, turning it to read the label. He popped the top off and grabbed a couple of Vicodin and swallowed them, before setting the bottle back on the counter. _

_He sat down slowly on his couch, a small pained noise escaping his lips as his ribs throbbed angrily. He leaned back and closed his eyes, willing the pain to stop. _

_A loud knock resounded from the front door. What the hell? He thought. _

_"Who is it?"_

_An unfamiliar voice called through the door, "__My name is Pearson. Morris Pearson. We haven't met. I worked with Mr. Grissom on the Jane Galloway case."_

_Sighing, Nick hauled himself off the couch, hand curling protectively around his ribs. "It's almost one in the morning. What do you want?" _

_He peered through the peephole to see a man fidgeting on his front steps, staring nervously into the peephole. _

_"I've had more visions. Please let me in." _

_Purely out of curiosity, Nick opened the door, to get a better look at Pearson. "Yeah, maybe, but look…"_

_To his surprise, the man pushed past him into his living room. "Please, please let me in."_

_A little late for that, Nick thought. "I can't just let you in my…"_

_"Please, please, please…" the man said, sounding crazy. _

_"Hey, hold up." Enough crazy people today, already, he thought._

_"I saw this house. I saw this house, I saw the number. I saw the street name. Something is wrong here. Something terrible is going to happen here." Well, that's comforting. _

_"Sir…" _

_"I can feel it." Yeah, sure you can._

_"Sir. Sir…You're going to have to leave."_

_Please, please listen to me," the man said. _

_"Get out of here."_

_"Listen to me!" Pearson yelled over him. Nick stopped. Pearson continued more calmly. "I saw the address. I saw this address." What?_

_"You saw _my_ address?" Way to think quick, Stokes. _

_"Yeah, but that's not it, that's not it. I saw, I saw ... I saw crashing. I saw ... falling and crashing-- I saw somebody seeing through the back of his head. I don't know, I don't know ..."Pearson whirled about. "Green tea! Green tea! Does that mean anything to you? Green tea?"_

_Nick was beginning to conclude that his original impression had been right. "I don't know." He sighed, shook his head, as the phone rang loudly. "Just…"he picked up the phone. "Hello?"_

_"Nick, listen, he's been in your house." Leave it to Grissom to be cryptic even when the other participant in the conversation had a concussion. _

_"Who?" Nick asked, regretting how clueless it made him sound. _

_"Nigel Crane, the stalker. Brass is on his way with two uniforms to put at your door." _

_"Yeah, well, I'm not alone."_

_"What?"_

_"Yeah, your psychic's here," Nick said annoyed. _

_"Good, keep him there." The line went dead. Thanks for the help. _

_He pulled open a drawer and grabbed his gun, turning back to the living room, but seeing no one. He didn't care what Grissom said, he didn't trust this guy._

_"Mr. Pearson…" he cocked the gun. "Mr. Pearson? Mr. Pearson…?" Nick walked through his living room, down the hall. He checked the door, out the window, then walked back to the living room. _

_Creeeeeaaaaaakkkkkk. The floorboards gave away his position. Lucky he was the one with the gun. _

_Thump. Nick stared upwards, pointing his gun toward the ceiling, glad that though he was shaking, his gun was steady. _

_A web of cracks appeared on the ceiling, then the plaster collapsed and through a cloud of dust he saw the body of Morris Pearson lying perfectly still. _

_Nick knelt to feel for a pulse, then heard another loud thump. He looked up to see another man standing over him, reaching toward the gun he didn't realize had slid from his grasp. His own hand shot out to grip the cool metal of the gun first, but it was jerked from his grasp. _

_"Oh man. You got to…you got to watch who you let in here." What the hell? _

_"Smart move, spare gun." He slapped the side of it and Nick winced, hoping it won't go off. _

_"Cops are on their way," Nick said as Crane checked that the front door was locked._

_"Yeah, I heard that." Crane closed the blinds. _

_"You wearing my clothes?" It wasn't the drycleaners…_

_"It's just that…I'm sorry I, I just get a little confused about what's yours and what's mine." _

_"I'm a little confused myself."_

_"Sports package. Hundred and fifty channels." _

_"You installed my cable." As Crane babbled, Nick's mind went into overdrive, trying to think of some way out of this mess. _

_"You know, you mentioned her name in your sleep." _

_"You watch me sleep?" That was just way too much. _

_"You, um, want to open him up? Hmmm?"_

_"No, no, it's, uh…it's not my job. You should know that. It's the coroner's gig."_

_"Are you humoring me Nick?" Crane asked softly. _

_"No." He shook his head. Wrong move. _

_Nigel went off on him, rambling about how he was self-absorbed. He hoped that wasn't true. This couldn't be his fault, right? Right?_

_Click. And then the gun was pointed at him.

* * *

_

Warrick listened to Nick talking to himself, not knowing where this was coming from, only that Nick had never told him.

"You know what a nine-millimeter slug does to a skull at close range?"

Warrick turned to stare at Nick, mind whirring, trying to place this conversation.

"Blow it right apart, right? Brains like strawberry-swirled whipped cream. Everywhere." Warrick recoiled at the graphic imagery.

"And you. You'd have to scoop that stuff up, right? Yeah, little pieces of skull, and bone, and brains. All in individual baggies with the victim's name on the label." Nick's voice was rough, not his own, but his next words sounded like him.

"I don't want to disappoint you, Nigel. But this isn't the first time I've had a gun in my face." Warrick stilled, the memories of Nick's ordeal with Nigel Crane crashing through his memory like a landslide, pushing everything else from his mind.

"How do you want this to end, Nigel?" Warrick stilled, waiting to hear what happened next.

"How do I want this to end? I want you to be able to remember my name." Nick moved suddenly, pushing himself farther away from Warrick, his breathing heavy and broken with coughing.

Warrick filled in the rest for himself. He had been told Crane had turned the gun on himself. Nick must have stopped him, as the police came in. That was the only part of the story he knew.

He placed a hand on Nick's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me what he did to you?"

* * *

"I found these other pictures with Nick's." Brass handed the photos to Grissom.

"These are the other serial victims," Grissom stated.

"He targeted specific people. He got to know their routines, before he took them," Catherine said.

"Why Nick?" Sara asked.

"I don't know," Grissom said thoughtfully.

"Kid sure seems to attract crazies," Brass said, speaking what the rest refused to say.

"Brass, run Parras' credit cards. Find out any other buildings he owns, where he's been recently, anything you can find on him," Grissom ordered. "Sara, you and I will process Parras' house. Cath, Greg, you two work on tracing Warrick's cell phone."

They dispersed quickly, each intent on their tasks. Grissom stood for a moment, watching his people go to work, before he followed Sara toward the parking lot. He walked fast, almost jogging in his hurry.

He hoped against hope that they weren't already too late.


	24. Chapter 24

_Nick sat in the viewing room long after Nigel Crane was taken away, long after his friends had gone back to work. _

_He could hear the chair he was sitting on as it rattled against the floor with the force of the tremors that ran through his body. But he didn't feel anything. _

_It had been hours since he had taken any pain medication. His head should be killing him, he thought idly. But it wasn't. He didn't feel anything. _

_"I am one and who am I?" Nigel had asked, over and over. It echoed through his head the way a shout echoes through a canyon. A big empty canyon that doesn't feel anything because it is made of stone. _

_"I don't think it was about you, Nick." Of course it wasn't. It never was with Grissom. It was about the puzzle, about the logic, never about how it feels. He wondered why Grissom didn't study rocks. Rocks didn't feel anything either. _

_"I don't think it was about you, Nick." The words stretched on forever in his mind, coiling like the circles of Hell, spiraling downward into nothingness but still going on and on. That was it, wasn't it? It wasn't about him, and that was it. It was over, because it wasn't about you. But what if it was?_

_You never know what you need until you don't have it. You don't know you have to be someone, until you aren't. _

_He got it. "I am one and who am I?" It was a good question. He was Nick, he was a person. But who did that make him? Who was Nick? Who was he really? _

_"It's what makes a person, I guess." He had said that. But was it true? Was all that he was a sum of the things that happened to him? _

_"I am one and who am I?" He got it. Nigel wanted to be him. "You were someone he could actually become." You always want what you don't have. _

_At least Nigel had some idea of who he was, or who he wanted to be. Nick didn't know. Was he the little brother, the slow CSI, the nice guy, the guy who empathizes too much? Could you define what you were at all?_

_He pictured Nigel reaching in front of him. "I am one and who am I?" Reaching, reaching, reaching for what he wanted but always coming up short. _

_It wasn't fair, it wasn't right that they couldn't have what they needed. But still he felt nothing. _

_He stayed there for a long time, not knowing what else to do. It is a very difficult thing, knowing what to do when you don't know who you are. _

_Nick touched his face, surprised to see a shiny wetness on his finger. He wiped the tears from his eyes. But he still didn't feel anything. _

_A rock, a statue in the chair in the viewing room, unable to move, unable to feel, only to think of what should be. _

_"And who am I?"

* * *

_

"I am one and who am I?"

Warrick felt a little better that he knew what Nick was talking about, then immediately felt worse. He shouldn't be happy when Nick was trapped in this nightmare.

Not that there was anything he could do about Nick's nightmare. Or his own for that matter. After all, it was pretty nightmarish to be trapped in a room waiting for your friend to die from a drug overdose so that you could be killed by a serial killer who keeps yelling at you in Spanish.

He vaguely wondered if, assuming they escaped, Nick would consider teaching him some Spanish.

"And who am I?"Warrick glanced at Nick, thinking that was rather sudden. Nick had been quiet for a few minutes.

"Who am I?" Nick asked again, softer this time, unsure. Warrick drew his knees up to his chest.

"I don't know, Nick. Are you asking about then or now?"

* * *

Parras' house turned up a whole lot of nothing, as far as Sara could tell. There was no hint as to where Nick and Warrick might be.

Sure, they had found bloody knives that could probably link Parras to the other murders. But she didn't care about that right now.

She and Grissom rode in complete silence back to the lab, each lost in their own thoughts.

Sara wanted to talk about it. She wanted to tell him how scared she was. She wanted to scream how unfair it was that it was always Nick, even though she didn't know who she would have take his place. It wasn't something she would wish on anyone.

She was a scientist, trained to look at solid fact. But there were no solid facts to say why it was always Nick.

"Do you think it's just bad luck?" She realized, once she said this, that Grissom wasn't privy to her thoughts, and probably didn't know what she was talking about.

"I don't believe in luck," Grissom said firmly, seeming to already know what she meant.

"Why not?"

"It is just how a series of events affects a person. Chaos theory, a series of random events. Luck is adding order to chaos, making the random events to achieve a purpose, to affect a person." Grissom stared intently out the window. "The universe is not conspiring against Nick."

"Do you believe in God?" she asked suddenly.

"Yes."

"So maybe it isn't random."

"God isn't scheming against Nick either."

"Then why is it him?"

"I don't know." Grissom still didn't look at her.

"He doesn't deserve it," she said, almost challengingly.

"No, he doesn't," Grissom agreed, looking guilty.

"Why do you look like that?" she demanded.

"He doesn't deserve it, but sometimes I give it out just like everyone else," he said remorsefully.

"What?"

"Sometimes I made it seem like I disapproved of him."

"Why?"

"Because I wasn't paying attention," he said, finally looking at her.

"I don't think any of us were."

* * *

_His head pounded, his nose stung with the scent of some sort of alcohol. His arms ached as something had painfully cut into his wrists. _

_He screwed up his face against all of this then opened his eyes and sat up. His head throbbed more insistently as he came into contact with a very hard surface. He lay back, putting a hand to his head. _

_What the hell?_


	25. Chapter 25

_He tried to keep himself calm. He had been in there for over an hour already, according to his watch, but he wasn't out of air yet. There seemed to be a little fan whirring away outside his box. _

_Nick was sure his friends were coming for him soon. They would find him, and this would be fine. No big deal. _

_He bit down hard on his lip, determined not to start screaming again. He was done with that. _

_'What if I die?' No, it wasn't time to think about that. They were coming for him. They were. That was all there was to it. _

_He closed his eyes, determined to wait it out. All of a sudden, his eyes were burning, his retinas being scorched though his eyes were closed. He opened his eyes and squinted toward his feet, putting up a hand to shield himself from the light. _

_A bulb in the bottom of his box blinded him. 'That's just great.' _

_He lay back again, still holding up his hands to avoid the light. Funny how right now, he would love to be above ground in the light, but down here he was trying to avoid it. _

_Things were mixed up down here. _

_'Fair is foul and foul is fair,' he thought to himself. Things were not as they seemed. _

_Maybe that meant he wasn't buried, wasn't waiting to be rescued. Maybe he was just home in bed, having a dream. _

_He could only hope.

* * *

_

Warrick watched Nick cough weakly, wishing there was something he could do, but knowing there wasn't. The helplessness washed over him, a cold wave of despair.

He wanted some high-tech gadget that would get them out of here, make Nick better, and let them forget all of this. Even Grissom would approve of a gadget like that.

"What if I die?" Nick whispered, staring straight at Warrick. Warrick started, surprised that Nick seemed to be aware of him.

"You won't. How do you feel?" he asked, moving closer to take Nick's pulse. Nick continued to stare at the place Warrick had been. "Damn," he said sadly. "You weren't talking to me, were ya?"

"That's just great." Nick mumbled. _Yeah. My thoughts exactly_.

* * *

"He's maxed out about ten different cards," Brass reported. "I have guys going through the records, but it's taking a while." 

Grissom didn't say anything, just kept walking toward his office. Brass walked next to him, equally silent.

"Grissom!" Greg bellowed from a layout room. Grissom stopped and stuck his head in.

"Did you find something?"

"I've been going through Parras' history, looking for anything that might help. Dude had a run-in with the police before, just to be questioned, file says he only speaks Spanish."

"And that means what, exactly?" Brass asked, impatiently.

"That we can rule out a lot of places." Grissom looked at Brass.

"Where can a guy go if he can't understand English?" Greg asked.

"There's a whole Spanish-speaking part of Vegas, though," Brass pointed out.

"Sometimes it isn't about finding the right answer, but about eliminating all the others."

* * *

_In books, no one just dies. They really, really die, in a big, dramatic way. Romeo and Juliet didn't just die, they tragically committed suicide because of a mistake. Macbeth didn't just die, he was brutally murdered as a result of a twisted, complex scheme. People get blown up, they get shot, they drive cars off bridges. _

_Before starting work as a CSI, Nick had thought that people didn't really die that way. People had heart attacks, died of old age, got cancer. It wasn't an easier death, by any means, but it wasn't so dramatic. _

_He remembered one of his first cases. A man had been cooking crystal methamphetamine, and it had exploded. Half of the guy's face had been gone. He remembered standing in that kitchen, staring at the blood and the smoke, thinking that people really did die in crazy ways. It kept him from thinking about the actual death part of it. _

_His perceptions changed over the years, to the point where shooting or an overdose was a calm, quiet death, relatively. He hated that he thought that way. _

_He supposed that, if he died, they would consider it a really quiet death. He would probably just run out of air. It would be like going to sleep, or so they said. He wondered how they could know that, when the people who said it had never died of suffocation. _

_Maybe it was only a quiet death because they wouldn't hear him screaming.

* * *

_

Grissom sat at his desk, quietly staring at the map of Vegas. He crossed off large sections of it already. He didn't know where to look next.

"Grissom," Catherine said, walking into his office without knocking. "I can't trace Warrick's cell. It isn't turned on, or it's out of range."

He glared at the map even more. "Damn it," he said softly. "Damn it!" He looked up at Catherine. "It's our job to outsmart the bad guys. What do we do when they are smarter than us?"

She shook her head. "I don't know." She looked at his map, too.

Grissom thought for a moment. "We make ourselves smarter," he said, answering his own question, before jumping up, leaving his office and a confused Catherine in his wake.

* * *

_The air was hot, heavy, pressing down on him and crushing his lungs. That damn light was making it all worse. _

_It clicked off and the fan finally whirred on. He turned and relished the cooler air. _

_Clunk. The fan stopped and the light came on. 'Damn light.' _

_He moved around, trying to get the light out of his eyes, and his hand landing on the weight of the gun. 'Perfect.'_

_He reached into his pocket and grabbed a piece of bubble gum, stuffing it into his mouth and chewing rapidly. He split it in half and pressed it into his ears. _

_The sticky mess was irksome, but necessary. He lifted the gun, setting it on his chest. He stared into the barrel for a minute. 'No. Not going there.' _

_He spun the gun around, and closed one eye. 'Damn light.' _

_Bang bang bang! He smelled the burning of gunpowder, but he didn't care. 'Yes!'_

_Nick laughed, feeling a strange joy, taken from defeating the light. He cracked another glow stick and shook it up. He stared at the walls of his box, happily noting that the glow stick didn't show everything outside his box. 'Now I can pretend it's not there.' _

_He stopped. He didn't mean that, did he? No, of course not. He meant that he wanted to pretend he wasn't in here. That was what he meant. It just wasn't how it sounded. _

_'I'm not here. Leave a message after the beep, 'cause I am not here. Not here. Not here.'_


	26. Chapter 26

Sara walked into a layout room where Grissom stood with a packet of paper and a large map. He consulted a paper, then circled a place on the map.

"I matched the blood to the previous victims," she said, causing him to look up.

"Good." He circled something else.

"What are you doing?" she asked, coming over to stand next to him.

"At some point, Parras had to see each of the victims somewhere, to decide to target them. I'm marking the places that could be those places." He glanced at his paper again, and made another circle.

"See, look at the picture of Nick." She squinted at it. He was opening the door to one of the CSI trucks, from a sidewalk.

"Okay…" Sensing she must be missing something, she looked closer. "The sign in the window behind him is in Spanish."

"Exactly. That rules out a lot of places already. But where could this be?"

"I'm sure that Nick's been to a lot of Spanish-speaking areas, though," Sara said.

"Sure. But he has a Denali. So he was working. That narrows it down to a case. And see, there, the cell phone on his belt? He got that about two months ago, when his old one broke. So we've narrowed it down to Spanish-speaking areas Nick has been to for work in the last two months," he said.

"I get it…" Sara said slowly. "So you are going to see if there's some overlap?"

"We're looking for a place the areas could be radiating from. . I'm circling areas within three blocks of the pictures." Grissom showed her the list of places.

"There are a lot more circles than that though. We don't know as much about the other vics."

"Right. But we're narrowing it down," he said, looking at her intently.

"Hand me a paper," Sara said, grabbing a pen. "I'll help."

* * *

_'I don't wanna die, please don't let me die…No! Keep it together, Stokes. C'mon! They'll find you.' He drummed his fingers on his leg, too anxious to sit still. _

_Nick desperately needed something to do, something to help the time pass a little quicker, help him hold it together. He was a little short on options though. _

_He vaguely recalled singing on the way to the crime scene. That seemed like a long time ago. _

_"It was Christmas in Las Vegas," he sang softly. **'What if you don't see another Christmas?'**_

_"When the locals take the town…" **'You aren't a local. Your family is far away at home.'**_

_"Teresa hit a streak…" **'Wish you had that kind of luck, huh?'**_

_"And laid her waitress apron down…" **'Food. You might not get to eat again.'**_

_"She was playing penny poker…Over at the old Gold Spike…she won at Texas hold'em…" **'Oh, God, Texas. I wish I was there.'**_

_He kept singing, telling himself if he made it to the end of the song, he'd be found. It was worth a try.

* * *

_

"They're too scattered," Sara said, blinking back tears. "They're all over the place."

Grissom threw his pen on the table in disgust. "It seemed like a good idea, before. None are even very close to each other." He flipped open his phone and pushed a few buttons. "Brass? Did you find anything yet?"

Sara put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. _Think of something. Something, anything. You have to save them!_

"They haven't found anything yet," Grissom declared, disappointed.

"So we're no closer than we were."

* * *

_"This is getting old…I can't break these chains that I hold…" Nick sang to himself. He had finished Lucky Too, and moved on, through Bohemian Rhapsody, American Pie, all the other long songs he could think of. He was currently working on the all the 3 Doors Down songs he knew. _

_'What was that?' he thought suddenly, falling silent. There, there it was again, a scraping sound over his box. _

_"Hey!" he yelled, as loud as he could, surprised that his voice would go that loud. He shook up his glow stick, hoping for a little more light. "I'm in here!"_

_He felts his voice weakening, so he rapped on the top of the box. "Hey!" he shouted, and his voice cracked. **'Maybe I can still sing.'**_

_"It was Christmas in Las Vegas, when the locals take the town…Teresa hit a streak and laid her waitress apron down…" he sang as loud as he could. _

_Taptaptap! He pounded the glass. "She was playing penny poker over at the old Gold Spike…" He quit singing. It wasn't any easier. _

_Taptaptaptaptaptap! "Hey! I'm right here!"_

_He still heard the scraping sound, they had to be coming, they had to be…_

_Then he looked down. A web of cracks snaked its way from the bullet holes in the box, all the way up the sides. _

_"Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop," he begged, but it didn't heed his plea. The fracture lines grew longer and longer, creeping toward him like a spider silently prowling its web, moving in on its prey. _

_"Oh, my God."

* * *

_

"Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop," Nick pleaded, wrapping his arms around himself . Warrick crawled over to Nick, and pulled his friend into his arms.

"C'mon Nicky. It's not real," he said. "You aren't there."

"Oh, my God." Nick tried to curl in on himself, but Warrick held him still.

"It's okay…" Warrick had no idea what Nick was seeing, and yet he somehow knew Nick must be in the box. That was the only thing he could think of that would cause the look of terror on Nick's face.

He noted that Nick's pulse had gone up quite a bit, but still felt weak. He suspected that Nick was still losing blood somehow, which mean internal damage. It was just getting worse and worse.

Nevertheless, he wasn't going to say it was worse. He would reassure Nick, the way he obviously needed, even if Nick couldn't hear him.

"It's going to be okay, Nick. It's not real. It's gonna be okay."

* * *

_He stopped speaking for a moment, stopping the tape recorder as he fought back tears. The lump in his throat only got bigger as he thought of how he had always meant to say these things, in person, but never had. Nick had always meant to tell them…_

_He felt a sharp pinch, then a burning sensation on his wrist. He glanced at it. An ant. He scowled at the ant, hoping to develop laser vision and eviscerate it. No such luck. He swatted it off. The dirt covering his legs was probably full of them. Speaking of which…_

_Hundreds more ants were coming in, already biting at his legs, under his jeans. The bites stung, then burned like alcohol on a cut. They worked their way up to his arms, his neck, and oh God, his face. _

_Nick squirmed around, trying to get away from them, even as he knew there was nowhere to go in this godforsaken box. Their little legs pricked at his skin, antennas twitching, finding the right place, then the mandibles sunk in, tearing away pieces of his flesh, as if they were all taking a little biopsy of him. _

_In school, he had studied Dante's Inferno. He vaguely wondered when he had committed violence against God, why he deserved to be rained on by flaming bits of sand. Every little pinch burned like fire. _

_What do you do when you are being eaten by ants? What would Grissom do? _

_Though it took more discipline than he cared to have, he forced himself to remain still. **'Don't agitate them.'**_

_He tugged a latex glove out of his pocket, tore it into four, pushing the pieces into his nose and ears. He'd be damned if any ants were going to get up his nose. He closed his eyes and mouth tightly. He wasn't going to be like Grissom and eat insects, either._

_He pushed his mind to think about something else, ignore the pain, ignore it, ignore it, ignore it, it'll go away. Just like when he broke his arm playing football in high school. He told himself it didn't hurt, and he kept on playing. _

_Maybe his life was God's version of a football game. He must be on defense, as he was always trying to stop the bad guys from getting their way. But he was always too late for the tackle, too slow for the interception. Always trying to make a difference after the fact._

_No wonder God wasn't rooting for him._


	27. Chapter 27

Mateo Parras watched the glowing screen with tired eyes. _Él_ was being much more resistant than he thought, and he was growing impatient. He considered giving him a second dose.

But no, that wasn't necessary, he thought after a moment. At this rate, _Él_ would be dead in about three hours, anyway. No use wasting his supply.

Mateo looked at his clock. It was late, very late. He thought for a moment.

He stood and stretched, figuring a two-hour nap couldn't hurt, since he had at least three hours before the big event. He pressed the 'record' button, and left his station.

* * *

_The table under him was cold, like ice, but not as wet. Only a sheet covered him, and he wanted to move to pull it higher. He was frozen in place. _

_The table was moved, and he suddenly realized it was a drawer. He was in a drawer. He found himself staring up at David Phillips and Doc Robbins. _

_Doc Robbins sighed loudly and shook his head. "It's a damn shame they didn't get to him sooner."_

_'I'm dead?' Nick thought. 'What am I still doing here, if I'm dead?'_

_"I sure will miss him," David said sadly. _

_'I'll miss me, too,' Nick thought. _

_"You know, David, I've seen fire ant bites in my time, but never anything like this." He gently lifted Nick's wrist, though Nick couldn't feel it, to show David the purple and red welts. _

_"Do you think he suffered?" David asked softly. _

_"Do I think he suffered…" Robbins repeated thoughtfully. "Yes. Definitely."_

_Nick found himself lying on the autopsy table, being hovered over by Doc Robbins, who was soaked in Nick's blood, and to his shock and horror, his own father. _

_"So, doctor. How did my son die? Anaphylactic shock?" he asked cheerfully, leaning over Nick's body to better converse with Doc Robbins. Nick somehow had thought his dad would be a bit sadder at his autopsy. Not that he wanted to see his dad upset. _

_"No, no, he didn't live long enough for that. COD was asphyxiation," Doc Robbins said happily. Judge Stokes nodded in understanding, still smiling away. "When the blood oxygen drops to less than 16 and the CO2 builds up, there's a rapid loss of consciousness. Death within minutes with no disfiguring physical findings." _

_Judge Stokes smiled even wider, nodding. "He'll look great at the funeral."_

_"Oh, yes," Robbins agreed. _

_"His mother will appreciate that." Mom. Nick felt a pang of sadness at the thought of his mother. _

_"Good," Robbins said, reaching into Nick's chest cavity and tugging out his heart. "Your son had a good heart," he commended the judge, slapping the organ into the judge's hand.

* * *

_

"Here! Grissom!" Brass bellowed over the buzz of anxious conversation.

"What'd you get?" Catherine demanded.

"Parras has been renting an old unused building." Brass pushed a piece of paper with the address into Grissom's hand. "I'd bet anything that's where he's got them."

"Yes!" Greg exclaimed. "What are we waiting for? Let's go!"

They rushed toward the parking lot without another word, each knowing what they stood to lose, should they be too late.

"Grissom." Brass glanced at Grissom to see him holding his phone to his ear as they walked.

Grissom frowned, then a look of realization and relief washed over his face. "Warrick!"

* * *

_Nick opened his eyes, struggling against himself not to move. The light from the glow stick cast a green haze over everything, making the backs of his eyes ache and his head pound, in addition to the burning of the ant bites. _

_His dad didn't care…his mom wouldn't either…_

_"I don't think it was about you, Nick." _

_"He'll look good for the funeral. His mother will appreciate that." _

_"Silk, silk, silk…"_

_"Stupid Nick."_

_His heart pounding harder, Nick struggled in his tiny prison, unsure if it was against the walls or himself. _

_**'No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! I don't wanna die!'** He felt the tears burn his eyes, the lump in his throat choking him, cutting off his air. **'I'm not ready!'**_

_There was a soft moan next to him, and he turned. The fan, like his hope, was deteriorating, fading into oblivion. _

_"Oh my God. No, no, no, no." _

_Without the fan, the heat began to smother him. Despite this, he suddenly felt cold all over, like he was frozen in a block of ice. _

_The ninth circle, the frozen lake of despair and hopelessness, the darkest depths of Hell. He felt the icy water seeping in through the bites, through his lungs, into his veins and into his heart, freezing it mid-beat. _

_With a weak cry, he hefted the gun and jammed the muzzle under his chin.

* * *

_

Warrick walked quickly across the room, turning sharply to walk the other way. He chewed his lip and wrung his hands, too tense to stay still.

"I don't think it was about you, Nick," Nick said, writhing in pain on the floor.

"Stop it, man," Warrick warned.

"He'll look good for the funeral."

"I mean it, Nick! Stop!"

"Silk, silk, silk…"

"You son of a bitch! Stop it!" Warrick screamed at him. He spun on his heel, turning to slam his fists into the wall, holding back the tears that he wouldn't let spill.

"Stupid Nick…" was whispered behind him. Warrick tugged his phone out of his pocket again, more out of habit than anything else. He turned it on and…a signal!

"Thank God, thank God!" he murmured, hitting the speed dial button.

"Grissom."

"Grissom! Oh, thank God!" he exclaimed.

"Warrick!"

"You gotta help us, man, you gotta help, I don't know what to do, I don't know…"

"Warrick, calm down. We're on our way to get you."

"You gotta hurry, I don't know if he can last that long. I just don't know…"

"Who? Nick? What's wrong?" Grissom demanded quickly.

"I…I don't know! It's…there's…"

"Slow down, Warrick. We're on our way, and we'll be there soon. Just calmly tell me what's wrong," Grissom said reasonably.

"He kept coughing, and he had a fever, and then the guy took us. He got banged up pretty bad, and then he started coughing blood, and then the son of a bitch injected him with something. He thinks he's in the box, and he won't snap out of it and I don't know what to –" Warrick exploded, close to tears, but was cut off by Nick's next words.

"Oh my God. No, no, no, no." Nick said, grabbing his head, and then his chest.

"Warrick, take his pulse for me, please," Grissom requested calmly. Warrick sank to his knees next to his friend. He grabbed Nick's good wrist, dropping the phone in the process, pressing his thumb against the vein there, counting the beats. One, two, Nick clutched at his chest harder, five, six, you're gonna be okay, Nicky, nine, ten…

And then the beats disappeared entirely.


	28. Chapter 28

"Warrick, take his pulse for me, please," Grissom said, glancing at Brass and motioning for him to speed up. A loud clattering noise prompted Grissom to jerk the phone from his ear.

"Warrick?" he asked, replacing the phone and listening closely.

"Oh my God! Nick! No, no, no, man. Don't do this now. Please, Nick, don't!" he heard Warrick yell.

"Brass, go faster!" Grissom ordered. "How far out are we?"

"Be there in two minutes," Brass grunted, wrenching the wheel to the left, sending the car careening through the intersection on two wheels. "What's goin' on?"

"I don't know," Grissom said, refusing to voice his suspicions aloud.

The next two minutes were the longest of Grissom's life, stretching infinitely before him like the roads in his nightmares where he ran and ran and never got any closer to where he was going.

Brass slammed on the brakes in front of an old, abandoned building, so hard that both he and Grissom were thrown forward. Grissom stared up at the grimy cement of the walls, the broken windows that showed the blackness inside, the very threatening nature of the building, and shuddered.

He was out of the car in a second, watching as Catherine and Sara pulled up behind them, and with them, paramedics.

"Everyone ready?" Brass yelled to his guys. "Going in on the count of three. One…Two…Three!"

Brass slammed his shoulder into the door, bursting through it, followed by his guys. They didn't shout their presence as they normally would, hoping to take the killer by surprise.

Just inside the door, where Grissom had followed Brass, the police were split up, sent to scour different sides of the building for clues.

Grissom followed Brass quickly to the left, Sara behind him. Catherine went the opposite direction.

They crept surreptitiously down the chilly cement hallway. The rough walls were stark, cold, almost like the walls of a tomb. At the end of the tunnel was a door, and Grissom had the feeling that it would be the very worst place.

* * *

"Don't do this now. Please, Nick, don't!" Warrick begged. He placed his hands on Nick's chest and began compressions, counting, then breathing. 

"Please, Nick, please!" He absently hoped he wasn't doing any more damage to Nick's already abused body.

_Can't be more damaged than dead_. Warrick shook his head roughly, pushing that away.

_C'mon, c'mon, don't die! Please, please don't die! You can't die now!_

Warrick kept it up for what seemed like hours, refusing to give up on his friend. _You can make it, Nicky_.

He was breathing hard, too hard to talk to Nick aloud. _Don't die, please, please, please._

BANG. The door behind him burst open, but he didn't look up, couldn't, had to keep going, had to keep trying, couldn't give up.

"Warrick!" Grissom's normally calm voice was almost frantic, desperate with worry.

"Grissom! Help, help him, please," Warrick pleaded as Grissom rushed to him and took over the CPR.

"We need emergency medical assistance, officer down. Send in the paramedics, now!" Brass barked into his radio.

"What happened?" Grissom demanded.

"I don't know, I- he was okay, and then it just stopped, and –" Warrick babbled, almost hysterical. "Oh, God, Nick, you can't die now!"

"Damn…" Brass said softly, kneeling next to them to get a better look. "What did that son of a bitch do to you?"

Warrick didn't pay him any attention. _Please no, please, please_. Tears stung his eyes, blurring his shaking hands. _No…_

The paramedics ran in and gathered around them, causing Grissom to step back.

"Sir, please give us some room," one EMT said to Warrick, but he ignored them, too paralyzed with fear to do anything.

"Come on, Warrick," Grissom said softly, placing his hand on Warrick's elbow, helping him to his feet and leading him away from Nick. "Let them take care of him."

"Charging!" One EMT yelled.

"Clear!" another shouted, placing the paddles on Nick's chest. Nick's body jerked up off the hard floor, then fell back to earth hard.

"No pulse. Again! Clear!" the medic ordered. Again, Nick's body was pulled by an invisible force off the ground, but then the cold floor reclaimed him. The EMT put two fingers to Nick's carotid then grinned at his partner.

"And we're back!"

* * *

Grissom sat quietly in the ambulance with Nick. Warrick was in the ambulance following them, getting his head injury checked. He made Grissom promise to ride with Nick. 

_It should be Cath or Sara in here._ Grissom thought. He had no idea what to do. Did he hold Nick's hand? That didn't seem quite the right thing to do. He could see Cath or Sara doing that. But not him. Should he talk to Nick? He was sure Nick couldn't hear him anyway.

So there he sat, still and silent, listening apprehensively to the EMTs working on his CSI.

EMT one, as Grissom had begun to mentally refer to him as, leaned closer to EMT two and said something in a low voice that Grissom couldn't hear. He felt almost grateful. He didn't want to know, not yet.

He mentally kicked himself. His mind drifted back to the thoughts he had weeks ago, about the things Nick didn't let him know.

_"Twenty-five to life, Nick. It's over," Sara said, trying to make him feel better. _

_"It's not over for me."_

When was it over for him? Did it ever end? He had never asked Nick about it, never mentioned it again.

His own words echoed in his head. _I don't think it was about you, Nick_. He had no way of knowing that. He wasn't sure he even believed it. He wanted to. He wanted to think it wasn't about Nick. He wanted the case to remain separate from Nick, wanted it to stay separate from himself.

He wanted to think that it had nothing to do with Nick because he didn't know how to deal with the aftermath of something like that. It was something too big for him to understand. Instead, he went back to his bugs.

Grissom knew it was a mistake. He had known it for a while now. So could he continue to not know, not want to know what was going on with his people?

Probably not, he concluded. When you make a mistake and know it, you have to remedy it.

He only hoped Nick would survive to let him.

* * *

**A/N:** The flashbacks in this chapter are to "Stalker" in season 2. 


	29. Chapter 29

So lost was he in his own thoughts that Grissom did not notice at first when they reached the hospital. The doors of the ambulance bursting open were the only thing that alerted him to the fact that the vehicle had stopped at all.

He clambered out quickly, watching as they pulled Nick out on the stretcher. He walked next to them, staring at Nick, at the bruises and blood that covered his body, wondering how he hadn't seen them before.

They pushed Nick through some doors marked "Employees only," so he stopped. He stood at those doors for a long time, still picturing his CSI.

"Grissom?" Sara's voice said softly from his left. He looked at her without saying anything.

"How is he?" she asked breathlessly. He just stared at her, words failing him as they so often had in the past. He thought wistfully of his bugs.

"Grissom? Grissom, you're scaring me," Sara said, her voice breaking.

And still, no words. Only pictures, pictures flashing through his mind like a horrifying slideshow.

_The contradiction of a neatly dressed woman holding the gun, that thing that had the ability to make a total mess of a person. Nick staring at her, scared and shaking, but remarkably solid at the same time. _

_The contradiction of Nick, bandaged, broken, weak, staring through the glass at the man who tried to take his life, the only one of them standing, the only one strong enough to face it. _

_The contradiction of kneeling on a glass box, telling Nick not to move or they'd all blow up, telling him to save their lives, when they were the ones who should have been rescuing him. _

_The contradiction of feeling his own heart skip a beat in fear, just as Nick's heart started beating again_.

"Grissom, please, please tell me something!" Sara begged him, jolting him back to the antiseptic hallway of a hospital they had been to much too often.

"He's Nick," he finally managed, the only explanation he could make as to how things were.

* * *

_His hand shook, rubbing the cold metal against his skin as he fought with himself. _

_He was going to die, he knew it. But did he die because of whoever put him in this hell without a guide to help him out, or did he do it on his own terms? _

_His friends would feel guilty, finding him, knowing they were too late. It wasn't fair to them. _

_His parents would be devastated if he killed himself because he couldn't wait any longer. He couldn't do that to them, either. _

_THUMP. Still shaking, still considering, he opened his eyes to look one last time at his prison, to see his last few seconds of life. _

_Instead of the dirt he was expecting, he saw a blurred form. "Hey! Hey! We got you man! Hey, Nicky!" Another hallucination? Probably. That probably meant he had to see what it was. Nick put a shaking hand up to the top of his box, letting the gun lay on his chest for a moment. _

_The condensation wiped away easily and he found himself staring at his best friend. "Nicky! Yeah. Hey, hold on there!" His voice was muffled, far away, and Nick wasn't sure if it was real. He wanted it to be, so badly that he was afraid to believe it, afraid because he didn't have any hope left in him to be crushed. He was afraid if there was no hope to be crushed, something else would be crushed instead. _

_"Hey, put that down! Put that down! Put that down. We got you!" But did they really? "We're gonna get you out of there." _

_He wanted to believe it, but how could he know? How could he know that they weren't fooling him? What if he really was still alone, still battling everything himself, just like always? Could they save him from it all, when he couldn't save himself?

* * *

_

Catherine sat with Warrick in an exam room, holding his hand tightly, guarding him. Warrick still shook, tapping the fingers of his free hand on his leg, as he repeatedly banged on the table with his foot.

"I'm scared." His low voice was rough from so much yelling, weak from overuse.

"I know," she said softly, unable to reassure him.

"He can't die," Warrick whispered. Catherine didn't argue. "He can't die after all this stuff. He can't have made it through all of it just to let the memories ruin him."

"What?"

"Are the memories worse for him? Does he realize that he was alone?" It suddenly dawned on her exactly what he was saying.

"But he wasn't alone, Warrick. We were there," she said.

"No, we weren't. We left him alone to figure it out, but we didn't come back. He was alone."

Warrick turned to look at her, his green eyes guilt-stricken and scared, like a little boy who didn't know how to admit to doing something wrong.

"Cath…we can't make it without him. So, why does he have to without us?"

* * *

Sara sat in the waiting room next to Grissom. She had pulled him over to a chair and forced him to sit down, for fear that their blocking the door might interfere with the inner workings of the hospital. 

So now they sat, silently, feeling the crushing pressure of all the tensions in the room, though Sara was sure that the apprehension she felt far outweighed that of the other people here. Probably most of them were waiting for a relative to get stitches, or get a broken leg set.

"They had to shock him back," Grissom said suddenly.

"W-what?" she faltered, turning to look at him, only to find him staring straight ahead as though he wasn't even talking to her.

"He had no pulse. He was dead." His words were harsh, rough as sandpaper on the surface, but underneath soft and scared, like words from a small child.

Maybe that's what they all were, deep down. They all felt small and helpless like children when things like this happened. She could only imagine what it would be like when these things were actually happening to her.

Grissom didn't say anything more. Sara stared at the floor between her feet for a long moment.

"It – it's like he gave up on us," she whispered. After all the times when it seemed they would be too late…maybe this time they were.

She watched a drop of water fall to splash on the carpet, the tiniest bit of the ocean that threatened to take over her body and wash her away.

She thought about the way he looked when they had finally pulled him out of that grave. How he lay on the ground, trembling, and everyone was afraid to go near him. Could you get that close to sorrow without it swallowing you, too?

Sara suddenly realized that tears flowed from her eyes like a river now, that her shoulders shook and her breath came too fast.

A warm hand covered hers, and she clung to Grissom, letting him be her lifeline.

* * *

**A/N**: Flashbacks in this chapter are from "Who Are You?" in season 1, "Stalker" in season 2, and "Grave Danger" in season 5. 


	30. Chapter 30

_Icy cold covered his skin, and then came the end of the burning, the biting stopped, and it was just cold. The hiss of the fire extinguisher, the cold slithering over his skin. _

_"Hang on, buddy. Hang on." Warrick's voice continued to babble, so Nick obeyed, not knowing what else he could do. _

_Sara's voice, far away yelled something about paramedics. No. He wanted out of the box before they worried about paramedics. _

_He felt himself drifting, pulled back into the darkness. He wanted it to be real, but could it be, if he could fall away from it?_

_"Hang on. Hang on. We'll kill those ants, okay? You listen to me." He used Warrick's voice as a guide, pulling himself back out of that hell, back to what he wanted to be real. _

_He listened to the rumbling of Warrick's voice without really understanding what was said. He just wanted out. Who cared about the ants and the paramedics? Just get him out!_

_The rest of the dirt was brushed off the top of the box, and he heard Warrick count. They were going to open it and let him out and then it would be okay! He would be free!_

_He heard a frantic yell and people backed away. 'No! No, help me!' he begged silently, unable to voice it. _

_But there was Warrick, still. Warrick would stay with him. He would help him, save him. He had to. _

_Warrick looked away, behind him, and then the lid was eased shut again, and Warrick crawled away. _

_**'No! No, don't leave!'** The darkness crept back toward him, pulling him in, deeper and deeper, into the cold, dark, hopeless fear. _

_He hit the lid of the box once, hating it, wishing it was gone, wishing he could kill it. But he couldn't. So instead he screamed, hoping someone would do it for him.

* * *

_

The second the doctor left the room, having signed his chart and ordering him to get some rest, Warrick was off the exam table and out of the door. Catherine grabbed their stuff and followed him.

Warrick shoved through the doors to the waiting room where he saw Grissom and Sara sitting in the uncomfortable chairs. He made his way closer, squinting, trying to read their expressions for news of his friend. All at once, their features came into sharp focus.

He froze. Sara had tears pouring down her face, and was clinging tightly to Grissom's hand. Grissom stared at his knees, seemingly oblivious.

"What –?" Warrick managed to choke out before words abandoned him all together.

"How is he? What did the doctor say?" Catherine asked, placing a hand on Warrick's shoulder and guiding him to a chair.

"Nothing, yet," Sara said, wiping her eyes. "Sorry, I just…"

"It's okay," Warrick said quietly, putting his head in his hands.

"Warrick…what happened?" Sara asked. "You both were fine and now…"

Warrick sighed, looking up at them. He spoke softly, too tired to muster very much volume. "I don't really know. I went to Nick's place when he didn't show up for work, but then –"

"Wait, why wasn't he at work?" Cath asked.

"He was sick, pretty out of it, he didn't know what time it was. Anyways, so he gets up to come into work, and this guy comes into the house, yelling in Spanish. I have no idea what he was saying, so I just followed Nick. He took us somewhere, and stuck us in that room, and then…" Warrick stopped, shaking his head.

Catherine reached over and put a hand on his knee. "It's okay. I think we get it." Warrick nodded and looked at her gratefully.

"How long has it been?" he asked instead.

"Three days since you were taken. About two hours since we got to the hospital," Grissom spoke up.

"Oh."

They fell into silence, each lost in their own thoughts, worries, fears. The swinging open of the door brought all their eyes to the end of the room, but it still wasn't for them. They still didn't know what was going to happen to their friend.

* * *

Greg burst through the doors of the hospital, eyes zeroing in on the other members of his team sitting silently in the corner of the waiting room. 

He hurried up to them, sliding into a chair. "Hey. What's the news?" he asked quietly.

"No word, yet," Grissom responded immediately. Greg nodded, then realized Grissom wasn't actually looking at him.

"Where ya been, man?" Warrick asked him, casting weary eyes in Greg's direction.

"I was at the lab. Gris told me to stay and take care of the evidence 'til Day shift came in. I got here as quick as I could," Greg replied, a note of apology in his voice. He wished he had been here sooner.

He fidgeted nervously, unable to sit still. _It's been like, five hours since they got the hospital. How can it take this long?_

Greg knew the answer to that, though it was something he didn't want to think of. _If it was worse than we thought…

* * *

_

Tabitha Sharpe pushed through the swinging doors into the warm beige room fitted with comfortable-looking furniture, already searching for the family of her patient. Her eyes fell on an older man wearing glasses, the blue eyes behind the glasses watching her intently.

She strode across the room to him, barely glancing at the other people in the room. The man stood up, and the collection of people around him did the same.

"You're the one who came in with Nick Stokes?" she asked.

"Yes. How is he?" the man asked bluntly.

"I'm Dr. Sharpe," she introduced herself. "If you'd like to sit down…" she gestured loosely at the chairs they had just vacated, then seated herself on a couch.

Clearing her throat, putting off the inevitable for a moment longer, she finally began. "Mr. Stokes is…well, to be quite honest, he isn't in good shape."

The looks on their faces became even more devastated, if that were possible.

"We are doing everything we can for him, but his injuries are extensive." The brunette sitting next to the older man took in a deep, shuddering breath, wiping a tear from her cheek, then seemingly steeled herself for the doctor's next words.

"When he was brought in, he had suffered massive blood loss. In addition to the many lacerations, there was a tear in his liver, which caused him to lose quite a bit of blood." The blonde's hands tightened on the arm rests of her chair, her knuckles going white. "But we repaired the tear and gave him blood, so that shouldn't be a problem anymore."

The older man nodded and squinted at her expectantly. "The tear was worsened by the movement of some broken ribs, no doubt in a life-saving effort."

"You mean, when I….I made it worse?" the African American man asked suddenly, stricken.

"You saved his life," Dr. Sharpe said kindly. "If it weren't for you, he wouldn't have even had a chance. Besides, we were able to fix the tear, so it isn't a problem." The man nodded, and the blonde reached over and squeezed his shoulder.

"He has several broken ribs and a broken arm. The arm was set, but we couldn't put a cast on it, due to the open wounds in that area."

Again, the older man nodded, taking the news stoically, without comment.

"His blood panel shows a massive amount of cocaine, which is most likely the cause of the tachycardia and cardiac arrest."

"Nick doesn't do drugs," said a young man with messy hair, as he drummed his fingers on his leg nervously.

"The – he…Parras injected him with something…" the African American said hoarsely. "I should have known….paranoia, hallucinations….I should have known."

"There was nothing you could do, Warrick," the blonde comforted. Warrick just shook his head. Unsure what else to do, Dr. Sharpe pressed on.

"My major concern though, is the infection that set into a few of the wounds that seem to have occurred earlier than the others, a cut on his arm and one on his side. He, uh…" she faltered as the previously stoic man, the man she had been using as an anchor, adopted a look of shock and guilt. "He, uh, he spiked a fever, which we are attempting to control with medication and antibiotics.

"He also has pneumonia, which has significantly lowered his O2 sats, so I have him on one hundred percent oxygen, but if his sats don't improve soon, I will have to start a ventilator."

"He was coughing blood," Warrick said suddenly.

"Yes, that's a fairly common symptom of pneumonia. We are giving him antibiotics to fight the pneumonia, as well.

"I'm also worried about the significant weight loss he has experienced since his last admission. He is malnourished, and it is clear he hasn't been eating well." At this, the brunette shot a look at Warrick, who hung his head. "This compromised his immune system, which made him much more susceptible to infection.

"I sutured the lacerations. He's in the CCU, so that we can continue to monitor him closely." Dr. Sharpe looked at each of them, waiting for the question she didn't want to have to answer.

"He's going to be okay, right? He's gonna live," Warrick asked, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "He'll make it, right?"

"We are doing everything we can, but as I said, the damage is pretty extensive," she said sadly, looking away from Warrick, unable to meet his heartrendingly desperate gaze.

"What – what are his chances?" the blonde finally asked and Dr. Sharpe looked up at her.

"If he makes it through the night, there is a very good chance he'll come out of this just fine," she said, skating around the real issue, but the nervous younger man saw through her ploy.

"_If_ he makes it through the night?"

"We're monitoring him closely, but there's no guarantee that –" she began, but was cut off by Warrick, who jumped up and almost ran out of the waiting room.

"I'm so sorry," she said softly, turning back to the older man.

"Thank you, Doctor," he said quietly, and in his eyes she saw the look of a lost little boy and she was sure that he didn't know any better than the rest of them what to say when there was nothing they could do.


	31. Chapter 31

Warrick burst through the glass doors out into the cool air of the night, then whirled and slammed his fists against the wall of the hospital. "Damn it!"

"Warrick!"

He hit the wall again, eyes tightly shut against tears that fell anyway. "Damn it." He used his right hand to beat the wall, his left to hold him up. "Damn, damn, damn."

"Warrick!" A hand caught his wrist and he turned to see Catherine. He pulled out of her grasp, turning, then sliding down to sit with his back against the wall, tears soaking into the knee of his dirty jeans. He wiped his eyes quickly, unwilling to cry, not here, not where anyone could see.

"Damn it," he whispered. He felt an arm slip across his shoulders. "It's not fair, it's just not."

"I know, Warrick. I know it's not," she soothed, rubbing his back.

"He can't….he just can't…" He was unable to bring himself to say it.

"He's strong, Warrick. He'll make it through this," she said softly. "And so will you."

"But what if…?" he asked softly, too afraid to say it for fear it might come true if he spoke it.

"Don't think like that, Warrick. He's going to be fine."

"He hasn't been in a long time," Warrick said. "I knew it, but I never said anything. I knew he wasn't eating. He never slept. Hell, Sara knew too, and I told her not to say anything. She wanted to tell Grissom or someone, anyone who would know how to help him. But I thought telling Gris would just make it worse." He looked at her with shining eyes. "It's my fault."

"No, Warrick, no…we all knew. It's not your fault," she said, her voice strangled as her own tears threatened to choke her.

"Cath, I'm scared," he whispered.

"I know. I know." She held him close to her as he cried, his shoulders shaking, breath coming in great gasps, until he had no tears left to cry. She held him close as he listened to his own heart pounding, wondering how it had the courage to keep going when he knew his friend's could stop any second.

* * *

Greg rocked back and forth nervously at the end of the Cardiac Care Unit, unsure of whether or not to go in further. Grissom and Sara had long since walked in, to the far end of the ward to a bed with a curtain around it, but he still waited uncertainly, wanting to see Nick, but afraid of how he might see him. 

Everything Dr. Sharpe had said put him more and more on edge, but what really scared him was Warrick running out. Warrick, ever the laid-back one of the group, couldn't take the pressure. Where did that leave Greg?

He took in a deep breath and forced himself to walk forward, though his legs seemed to be made of lead. Greg stepped around the curtain and stopped, staring, breathless, at Nick.

His face, though mostly obscured by a large oxygen mask, was pale as death beneath the many bruises. Eyes closed tightly, Nick moved his head side to side a little bit, as though he were having a bad dream.

"Oh my God…" Greg breathed, and Sara whirled around to look at him. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Greg dropped into a seat next to the bed, and looked around, trying to avoid seeing Nick. His eyes landed on Grissom, who watched Nick intently, a small frown on his face, as he leaned forward toward Nick's bed, lost in thought.

Greg wished very suddenly that Catherine was there, thinking that somehow she would know what to do, would know what to say so that he wouldn't just be sitting there, awkwardly, afraid to look at the person he was here to see.

* * *

_His throat burned as he screamed, his arms aching as he pounded on the lid of his box. "Help me! Please! Help!" _

_The darkness seeped into his vision, flooding through him like ice-cold water numbing him to the pain in his body, in his mind, numbing his very soul. _

_A sudden presence on his box pushed the darkness away a tiny bit, but then it came back with a vengeance. He weakly hit the box again, wishing it would shatter at the impact, imagining the stinging as the sharp bits cut his hands, the warm sticky blood running down his arms, washing away the darkness. _

_There was a sound, someone calling to someone, but not him, obviously not him, because no one he knew was here with him, he was all alone, but he wasn't here either was he? 'Leave a message, 'cause I'm not here...' He hadn't known where he was before. _

_But he did now. This was hell, the deepest part of hell, and he wasn't getting out. No one was going to pull him out and he wasn't strong enough to do it on his own, not anymore, not after everything..._

_"Pancho!" He felt his body freeze. Yes, that was him. Cisco must be wanting his input on donating some organs. _

_"Listen to me!" He stayed still and watched as the darkness ebbed a little and Gil Grissom's face swam in front of him, hazy and confusing. _

_"Put your hand on my hand," Grissom ordered. Nick raised a shaking hand and put it under Grissom's, pushing, trying to break through the layer of Plexiglas, but he wasn't strong enough…_

_"Good. Now listen. There may be explosives under the box. They're probably set on pressure switches. We need to equalize your body weight before we can pull you out, okay?"_

_Nick breathed hard. Deep breaths, don't freak out, don't scream, don't move, don't be the reason they all get blown up. _

_"Pancho, nod your head if you understand me," Grissom said. He thought hard, then nodded slowly. _

_He watched in horror was Grissom's face disappeared, and all he could see was shoes. He vaguely heard shouting, but that wasn't to him, either. The dark, cold pushed back in, paralyzing him. _

_"All right, Pancho, we're gonna open the lid and get you out." The cold evaporated, he felt tears welling up, choking him, but it didn't matter. He was getting out! "But I need you to stay lying down." _

_It all crashed in on him hard, the walls pushing in, the tears closing his airway completely, his heart sinking into his stomach and barely beating. _

_"Okay? Or else you'll blow us all up." No, don't do that. He couldn't be the reason for his friends' deaths. He nodded, he'd stay still. He didn't have the strength to do anything else. _

_"You understand that?"_

_"Yeah. Yeah." He managed to push the words past the lump in his throat, his voice a strangled sound to his own ears. _

_"Do you promise?" He nodded, yes, yes, yes, anything. "Pancho, say 'I promise.'" _

_"I promise," he sobbed, the tears finally breaking through and soaking him, trying their best to wash away the ants, the dirt. The tears poured from his eyes, his breath coming in gasps that held only granules of dirt, no air, he was going to choke on dirt and his own tears…_

_"Don't move," Grissom's voice said, and the Plexiglas lid swung open. He still couldn't see through the darkness, reaching up for something, anything, and grabbing someone's arm as the person put a hand on his chest to hold him still. Another hand grabbed his own and he clung to it, afraid it was all in his head, afraid he would open his eyes and find himself back in the morgue…_

_"Lay still. Lay still. It's okay. It's okay." No it wasn't! It wasn't okay! **'No, no, no! No. Calm down. Calm down.'** He took a deep breath and stopped sobbing, though the tears still fell freely. _

_"Okay. Okay," he gasped, though it wasn't, not at all. _

_"All right, bring that over!" Grissom bellowed over his shoulder. Warrick squeezed his hand hard, then let go, turning to scramble out of the hole. "Don't move, Pancho," Grissom said again, and then he latched something over Nick's belt. _

_"Okay, Pancho. I want you to close your eyes and hold your breath." He nodded, because he didn't know what else to do. He heard Grissom's voice again. _

_"Now!" _

_It covered him, crushed him, the dry, dry earth choked him, pressed in on him, breaking him into a billion little pieces, little grains of sand, becoming one with the earth. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust._


	32. Chapter 32

Catherine gently guided Warrick through the CCU with a hand on his shoulder, just making sure. She pushed back the curtain around Nick's bed and Warrick made a small, strangled noise.

Greg immediately scrambled out of the way and Warrick took the chair he had vacated, gently putting a hand on Nick's arm. Nick flinched, and Warrick drew back, surprised.

More surprising was when Nick lifted his good arm and reached out, seeming to search for something. Sara caught his hand in her own and gripped it as tightly as she dared. He stopped struggling.

"He's there," Warrick whispered, staring at Nick's frowning face. "In the box."

"What?" Catherine asked, breathless, squeezing Warrick's shoulder, causing him to turn to look at her.

"He's been working up to it for hours," Warrick said, watching his friend sadly.

"What do you mean, Warrick?" Grissom asked softly. Sara bit down hard on her lip, Greg fidgeted nervously.

"All that stuff he never dealt with…he's been reliving it. The Hendler case. Crane…and now this."

The all turned back to face Nick, watching him for a long moment before he whispered, "I don't want to die…"

* * *

A strange sense of cold crept over him, softly as a whisper of wind tugging at him. He frowned at it, wishing it away. He just wanted to sleep, sleep until he didn't feel so bad, until he knew what happened next. Maybe just sleep forever. 

A quiet sound tickled his ear, a soft murmur full of care and words without meaning. Just feeling. It rolled around in his mind like a marble, all alone.

_What is this?_ He wondered. Was he dead? If this was death, it wasn't too bad.

_I think therefore I am_. That cleared up the death issue. Apparently he wasn't. Someone smart had said that. The name though, was escaping him….

He opened his eyes and squinted at the harsh light.

"Nicky? Nicky? Can you hear me?" Catherine's calming voice asked him. He blinked at her.

"Say something, man…" Warrick whispered hoarsely from his right. Nick turned to look at him. He didn't know what he was supposed to say.

"What are you thinking about, Nick?" Sara prompted.

"Descartes." The sought after word was rough in his throat, and strange on his tongue. He tripped over it a little, but it still made sense, so he didn't care too much.

They stared back at him, perplexed. All except for Grissom. How funny it was that he should be the one that understood.

"Yes, Nicky, that's right. You're here." Nick smiled a little.

"Wanna clue us in, Gris?" Warrick said.

"Take pity on us lesser mortals," Catherine said, rolling her eyes.

To their surprise, it was Nick who spoke. "I think, therefore I am."

A look of comprehension crossed their faces.

"Feeling a little philosophical?" Catherine asked, raising her eyebrows. Before Nick could think of a reply, someone else spoke.

"How _do_ you feel?" Greg asked, speaking too quickly. Nick thought for a long moment.

"Good, I think. I don't know. Better." Their faces fell. Was he supposed to say he felt bad?

"Nick, please tell us the truth," Sara said, squeezing his hand. He frowned.

"I am. Nothing hurts."

"That's good," Greg said cheerfully.

"How long have I been here?" Nick asked, casting a look toward Warrick.

"Overnight," Warrick answered.

"Did I miss anything?" Surprised, Catherine laughed.

"Just us, watching you."

"Oh. Okay." Something in the back of his mind told him he should care more about that, but he was tired, so he ignored it. He stifled a yawn.

"You should go back to sleep, Nick," Grissom suggested.

He didn't have to ask twice. Nick closed his eyes and fell back into a darkness that wasn't threatening at all.

* * *

Grissom stood up, feeling the ache in his back. His team, sans Nick, turned to look at him, surprised by the sudden motion. He sat back down. 

"Gil…you need to call his parents," Catherine said. He hadn't thought of that.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose I do," he said, standing up again, casting one last look toward Nick before striding across the CCU toward the exit.

Once outside, he pulled his phone from his pocket and flipped it open.

"Brass?"

"How's Nicky doing?" the gruff voice responded.

"Not too well," Grissom said regretfully. "I need his parents' phone number."

"One second," Brass said, and Grissom could hear typing as Brass demanding something from someone. He then rattled off the phone number.

"Thanks," Grissom said, and pressed "end" before dialing the new number.

"Hello, Mrs. Stokes? This is Gil Grissom, from the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Is Nick okay? Did something happen?" Jillian Stokes' panicked voice filled his ear.

"There's been an incident…Nick is in the hospital." He mentally cursed himself for not being able to put that in any kinder terms.

"What- What happened? Is he - ?" Before Grissom could answer, there was a shuffling sound, and a deeper, stronger voice took over.

"Hello?'

"Judge Stokes? This is Gil Grissom."

"What happened?" The judge wasted no time with niceties.

"Nick is very ill. He's in the hospital," Grissom said, unsure of what else to say.

Thankfully, Judge Stokes didn't ask for anything more, merely promising that he and his wife would be there by morning, before ending the call abruptly.

Grissom walked slowly back into the CCU, where he found his team seated exactly as they had been.

"Well?" Catherine demanded the second she saw him.

"They'll be here in the morning," he sighed, dropping into his chair again.

"That's good," Warrick mumbled.

"Warrick…you should go home, and get some rest. You've been through an awful lot…" Sara said, concerned.

"No." Warrick didn't even bother with an explanation.

"You should all head home," Grissom began, then spoke over the wave of protests. "You've all been up for days, and you need some sleep."

"So do you," Sara argued, remaining firmly in her chair.

"I'll stay with Nick," Greg offered. "I'm not tired at all, and that way you can all grab a few hours of sleep."

"I'm not leaving," Warrick said stubbornly.

"Oh yes you are," Catherine said, tugging on his arm, pulling him out of his chair. "You look dead on your feet."

"I wasn't on my feet until just now. That's your fault." Warrick said, smiling the tiniest bit.

"C'mon, Warrick. I'll drive you home," Catherine wheedled. He looked at Nick for a long moment.

"Okay," he said softly.

They all dispersed, leaving only Greg and Grissom.

"You should go home," Greg said. Grissom ignored him.

"Really, Grissom. You aren't doing Nick any good by getting overly exhausted. Go, I'll watch him," Greg insisted.

Sighing, Grissom pulled himself into a standing position again and shuffled out to the parking lot.

It occurred to him, once he got there, that he didn't have a car. It had been left at the crime scene. As he thought this, a large dark vehicle pulled up in front of him, and he squinted through the tinted windows to see Brass. He opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Thought you might need a ride," Brass said, pulling away from the curb. "I was heading over to see Nicky, but…" he trailed off as Grissom stared determinedly at the road.

They rode in silence, lost in their own worries. When they finally arrived at Grissom's townhouse, he got out without a word.

"Grissom!" He turned back to look at Brass. "This isn't your fault. He'll make it." Grissom wordlessly let himself into his home.

He looked around at his spotless townhouse, remembering years before when Catherine had used it to prove him an unfeeling robot.

_Maybe she was right_, he thought. _Maybe if I hadn't been so short with Nick, he would have talked to me, and none of this would have happened_.

_Maybe I am a robot_. He certainly didn't feel anything now, did he? Just an empty, numb sort of sensation.

But as he thought about it, he began to feel it, a deep ache beginning somewhere above his stomach and radiating through the rest of his body like sound waves. Sound waves of words he had been too afraid to say.


	33. Chapter 33

Grissom flipped another page in his entomology book. The words on the page before him blurred a bit, so he glanced up, looking around the room Nick had been moved to after his night on the CCU ward. It was fairly small, a single room with a window that didn't let in much light.

Nick mumbled a little bit, and Grissom turned to look at him. It had been almost a full day since he had woken up the first time and this was the first time since that he had even made a sound.

Grissom watched as Nick frowned and shifted a little, then woke up. Brown eyes hazy with pain found Grissom and Nick wanly tried to smile. It came out as more of a grimace.

"H-hey, Gris," Nick rasped, barely managing to choke the words out. Grissom poured a cup of water and handed it to him.

"Hey." Nick winced as he sat up a bit to drink some water, lying back quickly. "How do you feel?"

"Okay…" Nick murmured, a feeble attempt at a lie. Grissom frowned at him.

"What hurts?"

"Everything." He broke into a fit of coughing, closing his eyes when he managed to stop. "It felt better before."

"You were coming off anesthesia before," Grissom replied, reaching over to push Nick's call button, alarmed at the apparent breathing troubles the younger man was having.

"What for?" Nick asked immediately, before coughing hard.

"You had a tear in your liver. Don't worry, they sewed you up and gave you some blood," Grissom said.

A nurse bustled in, closely followed by Dr. Sharpe.

"Oh, Mr. Stokes, you're awake. I'm Dr. Sharpe," the doctor said with too much forced cheer. Nick just blinked at her. "How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?"

"I'm okay…" Nick mumbled, unwilling to admit to anything less in front of a stranger.

"He's in pain," Grissom said, casting a glance at Nick.

Dr. Sharpe strode to the end of the bed and picked up the chart, squinting at her own messy scrawl. "You're due for some more pain killers in about fifteen minutes," she stated. "But they'll make you pretty sleepy."

"Okay," Nick said weakly, then coughed again. "What's wrong with me?"

"You have pneumonia. And an infection. We're pumping you full of medicine to fight it, but you probably still feel pretty lousy, huh?" she said kindly.

"A bit," Nick said. He directed his next question to Grissom, as Dr. Sharpe discreetly left the room, followed by the nurse. "What happened?"

"You don't remember?" Grissom asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I remember…" Loud coughing. "The room we were in, and Parras, and being injected with something…but I don't know after that…" More coughing.

"He injected you with cocaine. You started hallucinating." Nick nodded.

"I saw…a lot of stuff that happened before," he mumbled.

"What did you see, Nick?"

"Mrs. Hendler…Nigel…" he whispered, then looked away.

"You saw yourself in that box again, didn't you?" Grissom asked softly. Nick nodded, then looked up at him, eyes full of tears.

"Nothing was how it was supposed to be…" he said, his voice cracking as he blinked back tears.

"Mr. Stokes, it's time for your medication," the nurse interrupted him, smiling apologetically at Grissom. Grissom nodded at her to go ahead.

"Get some sleep, Nicky. Someone will be here when you wake up," Grissom said, turning back to look at Nick.

"No, no, don't leave…" Nick begged, eyes shining. "Please…"

"It's okay, Nick. I'll stay until you sleep, okay? Someone will be here when you wake up," Grissom assured him.

"Promise?" Nick sounded like a small child, afraid and unsure.

"I promise. We won't leave you alone again." Nick nodded a little, eyes drooping as the medication took effect. His breathing evened out and Grissom knew he was asleep.

"We won't leave you…we never should have in the first place."

* * *

He awoke coughing hard, feeling the tearing at the stitches in his side, the ache of his ribs, the throbbing of his head. The pain itself nearly made him black out again, let alone the lack of oxygen. He sat up as he tried not to choke. 

A hand patted his back, not too hard, but not very lightly either, and he finally managed to stop coughing. He lay back and looked up at his benefactor, happy to see Catherine looking down at him, though immediately feeling guilty for the look of worry she wore.

"Thanks…" he said softly. She just nodded, reaching out to gently push his hair from his forehead, looking even sadder.

"You're awfully hot, Nicky," she said. He didn't feel hot. He felt horribly cold, and he supposed she could tell, because she tugged his blanket up higher.

His throat hurt too much to really try to say much, so he settled for just watching her as she fussed over him. He was too tired to even be bothered by it.

"Grissom told me what you said about your hallucinations." He didn't say anything. "He said you saw Hendler and Crane." He nodded. "And your box." He tried to swallow past the lump building in his throat and ended up coughing again.

"Oh, Nicky…" she said, rubbing his shoulder. He stopped and took a deep breath, then accepted the cup of water she handed him.

"That's not all you saw, is it?" He shook his head. She blinked rapidly. "I'm sorry that happened to you, Nicky."

She picked up his good hand and squeezed it gently. "Cath…" he said hoarsely.

"Yeah?"

"I…that wasn't all I remember," he whispered. She nodded and gripped his hand tighter. "I tried…to tell my mom…but I didn't know how…I was so scared."

"Nicky...you were just a little boy," she said quietly.

"I'm still scared…" he trailed off as dark edged his vision.

The last thing he heard before it took over completely was the rapid bleeping of a machine and Catherine's voice yelling, "Oh my God, Nick! Nick!"


	34. Chapter 34

Warrick watched his friend as he feverishly moved about in his bed. Another night had passed since Nick's admission, but his fever was as high as ever and he could still barely breathe.

He chewed his lip nervously, watching for any sign that Nick was popping his stitches again, as he had done earlier that day, when Catherine was there.

"Nick…" he said softly, not expecting a response, trying to think of something to say. The room was just so silent, other than the beeping of machines. It unnerved him.

"Nick?" another voice came from the doorway, and Warrick jumped up and whirled about, only to find the vaguely familiar faces of Nick's parents.

"Mrs. Stokes," he began, taking in her distraught expression. "I don't know if you remember me –"

"Warrick," she cut him off. She smiled weakly. "Nick's best friend. How could I forget?"

"Thank you for being here," Judge Stokes said.

"Of course," Warrick said. He cleared his throat, unsure of what to say next.

"Mr. Grissom filled us in on what happened and his condition," the judge informed him. Warrick nodded mutely.

Jillian Stokes sank into the nearest chair, and grabbed her son's hand, a quiet sob escaping her lips.

"I, uh, I guess I'll let you…" Warrick said awkwardly, starting to back out of the room.

"No, please, stay," Jillian said, wiping at her eyes.

"You should have some time with him…"

"He'd want you here," she said firmly, so he took his seat again, across the bed from her.

"No me mata…" Nick mumbled, turning towards Warrick as his eyes snapped open.

"Hey, man," Warrick said quietly.

"You…okay?" Nick asked, frowning at Warrick with concern.

"Am I –? Yeah, I'm okay. You?"

"Cold." Warrick saw the shivers running through his friend's body.

"Nicky…" Jillian said, and he turned, seeming to notice her for the first time.

"M-mom?" he croaked.

"Yes, baby. I'm here," she said, her voice remarkably strong.

"Cisco?" he mumbled.

"Right here, son," the judge said, stepping closer and placing a hand on Nick's shoulder. "Don't worry, Pancho."

Nick's eyes opened wide, and he squirmed away from his father's hand. "No, no, no, no…" he muttered. Warrick caught Nick's hand and grasped it tightly.

"Nick, listen to me. You aren't there. You're in the hospital, you're safe. Nothing's going to hurt you now," he assured his friend. Nick calmed down a little, though he continued mumbling, tears seeping from under his closed eyelids.

"You're okay, now. You're okay. Just listen to me, okay buddy? You're safe now," Warrick soothed, only relaxing his grip when Nick's hand went limp in his own as Nick slid back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Nick awoke to find himself staring into the face of his mother. He blinked, then recalled that she had been here the last time. 

"Hi," he said weakly. She smiled at him.

"Hey sweetie. How do you feel?"

"…Better."

"That's wonderful," she said, squeezing his hand. He nodded weakly and closed his eyes.

"Your father is just out getting us some lunch. Speaking of which, are you hungry, baby?"

"No," he said quietly.

"Honey, you've lost an awful lot of weight already. You're just skin and bones," she said worriedly. He opened his eyes to look at her, not sure of what to say.

"Mr. Stokes! How nice to see you awake!" A nurse called cheerfully from the doorway. She entered the room and put a thermometer in his ear. _Freaky new devices…_

"Down almost a full degree. Dr. Sharpe will be happy about that." She beamed at him. "What say we get some food in you?"

He shook his head. "I'm not…hungry." He coughed miserably.

She nodded sympathetically. "Maybe a little later, then."

He nodded, anything to make her go away. She scribbled something on his chart then left the room.

Nick law still, his chest aching from the coughing. Jillian touched his cheek lightly. "You look tired, sweetie."

He nodded again. He didn't feel much like talking.

"Why don't you go back to sleep?" He nodded again and closed his eyes. She ran her hand up and down his arm, whispering reassuringly to him.

"We'll get you all better, baby. Don't worry. You'll feel better soon."

* * *

"I'm not hungry," Sara heard as she walked into Nick's room. 

"Honey, you should eat something," Mrs. Stokes said firmly. Nick looked pained. The nurse however, didn't take his side.

"She's right. Sooner you eat something and get your strength up, the sooner you can get out of here."

"Hey. How ya feelin' Nick?" Sara asked, smiling at his look of relief as she interrupted.

"Okay," Nick said, offering a wan smile in return.

"At least eat the pudding," the nurse said. "It's good, even." Nick frowned a little, but picked up a spoon, staring dejectedly at the blob of goo in the bowl in front of him. He stabbed the utensil into it and ate a little bit.

"Doesn't that feel better?" Mrs. Stokes asked rhetorically. Nick poked the pudding with his spoon again.

"I'll be back in later, to check on you," the smiling nurse said, ducking out of the doorway.

Sara dropped into a chair beside Nick's bed, watching as, after he ate the pudding, his mother bullied him into eating some crackers too. Finally, he declared that he was tired, and they quieted to let him rest.

As soon as Nick was asleep, Mrs. Stokes whispered to Sara, "Would ya mind staying with him for a little while? I would love to get some sleep."

"Of course!" Sara said. "Don't worry about him, I'll stay." She smiled at Nick's mother reassuringly.

"Thank ya so much," Jillian said, and Sara detected the Texan twang she was so familiar with from Nick's speech. Jillian gathered her things and left quickly.

Sara sat back and flipped through a magazine. It had been three days since Nick and Warrick were found. Warrick was already back wandering the lab, though he was not allowed to work yet. He mostly played video games in the break room. They had put a limit on his time at the hospital. A person could only take so much guilt.

The rest of them were working hard on the serial case, gathering all the evidence they needed to prosecute Mateo Parras to the full extent of the law. They had taken him into custody that same night, now they just had to prove their case beyond a shadow of a doubt. Brass was planning to interrogate Parras later that day.

Lost in her thoughts about the case, Sara barely noticed a full thirty minutes tick by. She was pulled out of her thoughts quickly when Nick woke with a start, pushing his call button.

"Nick? Nick, what's wrong?" she asked, alarmed.

"I don't feel so good…" he mumbled, pressing the button harder.

The nurse rushed in. "Nick? What do you need?"

"I think I'm going to –" he began, turning a strange shade of green. He sat up quickly and the nurse handed him a small basin just in time.

He threw up over and over again. Sara stood next to him, rubbing his back, mumbling "Oh, Nick…"

When he finally stopped, the nurse took the basin from him, and he fell back against his pillows, holding his stomach.

When he got his breathing under control, he looked up at her disconsolately. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Nick. It's okay," she said, squeezing his shoulder. He just shook his head.

Only a few minutes later, the nurse was forced to give him the basin again as his stomach emptied itself.

"Guess you weren't ready for solids yet, huh?" the nurse said sympathetically. Nick shook his head, wiping his mouth with his hand. "That's a nasty infection you've got."

"How're your stitches?" Sara asked him after the nurse excused herself to get Nick some more medication.

"Hurts like hell," he admitted miserably. He was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. "I remember the last time I was this sick."

"You mean besides on your last day off?" she asked, referring to that day when Warrick had come to Nick's house, when everything had started.

"How'd you know that?"

"Lucky guess. You were saying?" She prompted.

"The last time I was sick like this was…after the Hendler case." Sara was stunned into silence. "After Grissom took her outside, I went out the back door and got sick in some bushes. I couldn't take it."

She nodded, afraid to interrupt for fear he would stop talking.

"That night was the scariest I had ever had. At least, it was at the time."


	35. Chapter 35

Brass placed the file precisely in front of him, folding his hands on top of it. He shifted a little to make himself more comfortable, then studied the man sitting across from him.

Mateo Parras was a small, balding Hispanic man. Despite the thinning hair on his head, he had a full black mustache which only partially concealed the crookedness of his teeth. Under his bushy eyebrows, two cold, black eyes darted nervously back and forth. Parras' strong hands rested against the edge of the table, as though he would at any moment push his chair back and make a run for it. His dingy clothes were patched and frayed; a coffee stain covered a large portion of the graying shirt he wore. Brass was also almost sure that the man smelled faintly of booze, though since he had spent several days in lock-up, the detective was sure he must have been imagining this detail.

Brass cleared his throat, then began. "Mateo Parras?"

"Sí," the man said sullenly.

"You were apprehended in a building in which two men were being held captive." Brass looked to the translator who sat next to him, letting the rapid-fire Spanish issuing from the man wash over him without even attempting to understand it. He had only taken a couple years of Spanish in high school, a very long time ago.

Parras just glared at Brass and remained silent.

"Why'd you kidnap Nick Stokes and Warrick Brown?"

Parras leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Brass stopped himself from jumping across the table and punching the guy. He was much too old for that anyway.

"Look, it doesn't matter to me if you talk or not. Fact is, we got plenty of evidence to put you away for the rest of your life, a few times over. But here's the deal, you talk, and maybe the jury goes a little easier on you. Get my drift?"

He waited for the translator to finish speaking, then looked expectantly at Parras. The man sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Mientes."

"He says 'you lie,'" the translator stated. Brass scowled.

"Listen, you son of a bitch, you hurt a cop and you spend a hell of a lot of time in jail. You hurt cops that are as well liked as Nick Stokes and Warrick Brown and you don't see the light of day again," he spat furiously, shoving the table to push back his chair, and getting to his feet before stalking across the room.

Brass had his hand on the door knob when Parras finally spoke.

"Él murió?"

Despite his anger, Brass did remember this much Spanish. "No. A pathetic little weasel like you couldn't kill him. He's too good for that." He didn't even wait for the translator to say anything before he jerked the door open and strode out, slamming it shut behind him.

* * *

Grissom stood silently in the observation room, calm and collected, in perfect contrast to the infuriated detective who had just stormed out of the room. 

He studied Parras carefully, nothing the downward pull at the corners of his mouth at the news that Nick had survived, followed by the look of failure.

The translator also exited the room, leaving Parras only with the guards who stood silently at the door.

Grissom glanced down at the file he had pulled on Parras. As it turned out, Parras had a record, from a few childhood instances of killing animals. The surest sign of a serial killer.

According to the file, Parras was put in foster care at age eight. His father had disappeared when Parras was five, after his mother had gotten a restraining order against him due to domestic violence. Three years later, she died of a drug overdose right in front of her young son.

The young Parras was bounced from foster home to foster home, before finally landing in a Caucasian home, where, despite his bad behavior, he was forced to stay.

He was beginning to understand Parras' actions, in a strange way, though it didn't make those actions any more acceptable. He somehow understood on some very strange level how the traumatic events of the man's childhood had warped his young mind to the point where killing was a mechanism of dealing with issues he couldn't face.

Grissom looked back up at the man in their interrogation room, trying to see the small child Parras had once been, the little Hispanic boy who had lost his innocence when he saw the death of the only person in the world who cared for him.

He was beginning to understand why Nick found cases with children so much harder. He himself hated it when kids were sold drugs. It was that same loss of innocence, just more obvious.

As he thought this, Grissom realized that he only did see the obvious, when it came to people. He saw only the basic details, while Nick saw the whole picture.

He had often criticized Nick for this, telling him he got too close to the people involved, got too attached. But maybe the real problem was when a CSI didn't care, when he didn't get attached.

To see the small things at a crime scene, one must use a bright light, and get very close. What Grissom had failed to realize, as Nick had pointed out to him a long time ago, was that he couldn't ignore the people in the case. And in order to see what was really going on, he had to get a little closer.


	36. Chapter 36

Warrick navigated the halls of the hospital on his way to Nick's room. Sara had stayed through the night, and now it was Warrick's turn to keep watch over their friend. It felt weird to him that they were taking it in shifts, but at the same time, he saw the logic in it.

Entering Nick's room, he found Sara dozing in a chair while Nick tossed and turned fitfully in his bed. Warrick gently reached out and touched Sara's shoulder, gently waking her.

She sat up and looked over his shoulder at him. "Hey."

"Hey. How is he?"

"Not too good. His fever spiked another degree last night. The doctor put him on some new medication, since the infection seems resistant to the last one," Sara explained, pulling on her jacket. Warrick nodded wordlessly. An ache started deep in his chest, the feeling of empathy for his friend. _Should have been me_. _It's my fault._

Sara touched his arm. "Hey. Stop it. It isn't your fault." Scary how she could read his mind. He just shook his head. "Warrick, talk to me."

"I was the one who said we shouldn't tell Grissom he wasn't eating."

"I don't think there was anything even Grissom could have done…" Sara said uncertainly. "Nick was doing the best he could. You shouldn't blame yourself for this."

He sighed in frustration. "It's just…it just as easily could have been me. It could have been me that got tossed out a window. Coulda been me in that coffin. Coulda been me that Parras targeted." He looked at Nick for a long time. "But it wasn't. And part of me…part of me is glad it wasn't." Warrick struggled with himself for a moment, before he forced himself to meet Sara's eyes.

"The other part of me hates myself for thinking like that. I don't want this to be happening to him. I keep thinking, 'it could have been me,' and I know he knows that, but he won't say it. He won't say anything."

"Warrick…it's okay to be glad it wasn't you. It's okay to be grateful that you're still alive," Sara said firmly.

Warrick shook his head again. "I keep thinking how scared he must be. I didn't realize, I didn't know how much something like that sticks with you, even once you're out of the situation. I didn't realize until…" he trailed off. "How can I still be scared, when I know how much more afraid he has to be?" He sat down and put his head in his hands.

Sara put her hand on his back, rubbing the tense muscles there. "It's okay to be afraid. You just can't let it take over your life." Something told Warrick she spoke from experience, and it made him trust her more.

"You should get some sleep," he said, taking in her exhausted appearance.

"I don't mind staying, if you want…" she offered.

"No, it's okay. You have work in a few hours," he replied.

"Okay, if you're sure…" She turned to leave, stopping once more in the doorway. "Don't beat yourself up too much, okay? He's going to make it."

Before he could respond she had slipped out and was gone, leaving him alone with his friend.

"You hear that, Nicky? You're gonna be just fine."

* * *

Warrick awoke suddenly, unsure of how long he had been asleep with his head on the side of Nick's bed. He sat up, feeling his back ache in protest. 

"Hey, bro," Nick said, laughing weakly.

"Hey, man. How do you feel?"

"I hate that question," Nick said abruptly. Warrick stared at him, then grinned. "What?" Nick asked, slightly annoyed.

"I think that's the most honest thing you've said to me in a while," Warrick said, still smiling, though his words were serious.

"Maybe I'm tired of the way things are," Nick said, with a sigh that was cut off by a fit of coughing.

"What do you mean?" Warrick's smile faded.

"I'm just…so tired," Nick said, looking up at the ceiling and blinking back tears. "I'm tired of being afraid."

Warrick put his hand on his friend's arm. "You don't have to be afraid, Nick."

Nick shook his head. "No one understands. I see it all again every time I close my eyes…"

"So do I." Nick turned to look at him, perplexed.

"I see you with that gun…" Warrick trailed off.

"I'm sorry, 'Rick." Weak coughing.

"Nah, man, don't be. I wouldn't have made it as long as you did," he admitted.

"Yes, you would've," Nick said firmly, startling Warrick a bit. "You woulda made it 'cause you know if you had pulled the trigger I woulda hauled your ass right back here to earth and killed you myself."

Warrick laughed, surprising himself. "Yeah, I guess so..."

Nick coughed very hard, then lay back again. "Warrick?"

"Yeah, bro?"

"I'm tired," Nick said, and Warrick knew this time he meant it more literally.

"Okay, man. Go back to sleep." Nick nodded and closed his eyes.

Just when Warrick thought his friend had fallen asleep, Nick spoke again. "Thanks for saving me."

"No problem, bro," Warrick said softly, smiling faintly as his friend dozed off.

* * *

Grissom entered Nick's hospital room to find Nick alone, clutching a small basin and looking a little green. 

"Hi, Nick," he said quietly. Nick nodded at him. "Where'd your parents go?" he asked.

"Went to get some lunch," Nick said, then bent to throw up into the basin. Grissom winced.

"Still feel that bad?" Grissom asked sympathetically. Nick wiped his mouth.

"The pneumonia's a lot better, the doc said. Fever broke. Just around a hundred now…" Nick said, seeming to decide to report the good news.

"That's great, Nick," Grissom said, genuinely pleased. "You'll be out of here in no time."

Nick laughed ruefully. "I wish. Doc's not gonna let me go til I can hold down something solid –" he was sick again, and Grissom politely looked away.

"Sorry," Nick mumbled when he was finished.

"Don't apologize, Nick. You have nothing to be sorry for." Nick just shrugged. Grissom changed the subject. "Tell me about your nightmares," he said bluntly.

Nick threw up a bit more, then stared at him. "Why?"

"You and your experiences are part of an active investigation. One of my CSIs once told me I couldn't ignore the human element," Grissom explained. Nick looked up at the ceiling, avoiding Grissom's eyes. He didn't speak for a long time. Luckily, Grissom was patient.

"It starts in the Hendler house." Grissom raised his eyebrows, surprised at this. He hadn't realized… "I'm looking at the gun. I know she's talking to me, but I can't hear anything she says, just the gun cocking and my heart beating. But then she's gone, and I'm running out the back door, but once I get there, I feel someone push me and I fall instead."

_Crane,_ Grissom thought. Nick continued in a rush, as though afraid if he stopped he wouldn't be able to continue.

"I'm falling, I hear the gun cocking, him saying "I am one and who am I?'…" Grissom nodded, but was thrown by Nick's next words. "And you saying 'I don't think it was about you.'"

Grissom frowned at this, unsure, but Nick was oblivious, having looked away when he said that.

"I land on my back in a pit, and the lid of the box swings shut. This avalanche of dirt pours in and covers my box. I scream as loud as I can, but no one comes. Then that voice starts…'Hi CSI guy'…" Nick shuddered, glancing back at Grissom. "I see my parents…my mom crying, and my dad looking sad, disappointed…and Warrick punching the door of his locker… Sara crying, Catherine comforting Greg…and you." Nick stopped.

"What am I doing, Nicky?" Grissom asked softly, almost afraid to hear it.

"You shake your head and just walk away." Nick looked at the opposite wall, avoiding Grissom's eyes. "Then I see Doc Robbins standing over me. He's doing my autopsy. He hands my heart to my dad."

Grissom swallowed hard, waiting for Nick to continue.

"I feel the ants starting to bite, but I can't move, I'm frozen, except my right hand. I reach down and pick up my gun, I put it under my chin. I hear the gun cock and suddenly I'm in a lake, frozen solid, trapped, and I can feel myself being eaten, but I can't move to stop it, I can't do anything, I'm just trapped, hopeless…" Nick trailed off.

"The ninth circle of Hell," Grissom said quietly. Nick nodded, blinking rapidly. "The circle for traitors."

Nick put his hand to his face, pressing on his eyes as though this could stop the tears that threatened to fall.

"Who is it you think you betrayed, Nick?" Grissom whispered. Nick said nothing for a long moment, before finally opening his mouth to speak.

"Myself."


	37. Chapter 37

Nick awoke a few hours after his conversation with Grissom. His parents were long gone, probably having gone to their hotel to sleep. He wished he could have seen them. He was frustrated with himself for not being able to stay awake for more than a couple hours at a time before needing to sleep, but he couldn't help it.

When he opened his eyes, he found Grissom right where he had been before his nap. "Grissom?"

"Yes, Nick?" he answered, immediately sitting up straighter.

"I'm ready now." He had promised Grissom he would tell him more after he slept.

"Okay." Grissom fell silent. Previously, Nick would have felt unnerved by this, but now he was grateful for the chance to get some things off his chest without interruption.

"You know how what we want usually isn't what we need?" Grissom nodded. "I wanted to forget everything immediately. I thought that if it was over, that meant I should be over it."

"I told Catherine it was what makes a person." Seeing Grissom's perplexed look, he hastily explained. "Experiences, I mean. The things that shouldn't happen, that you learn to deal with." Grissom nodded. "You can't learn anything from it if you forget."

"You don't have to think about it all the time, either," Grissom pointed out.

"No," Nick agreed. "But you have to deal with it. I don't think I ever did that. I let all those things eat at me."

"That's how you betrayed yourself?" Grissom realized.

"Yeah. I let it slowly kill me," Nick said, silently begging Grissom to tell him how to fix this.

"You didn't let it kill you, Nick. You're still here."

* * *

"What happened when you were alone with Parras?" Warrick demanded as Nick poked some Jell-O with a spoon. Nick merely shrugged and stared unhappily at the wiggling red substance. "Seriously, Nick. What happened?" 

"He didn't say much," Nick finally said. "He knew who I was. He said his name was Mateo Parras and that it was nice to meet me. I was tied to a chair."

"Then what, bro?"

"He cut me up a bit. Hit me a few times…Then he said he wouldn't do anything more…yet," Nick stared at the Jell-O, seemingly afraid to look at his friend.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" Warrick asked.

"I don't know. I didn't want to worry you, I guess."

"You've got to quit telling people that it's all good when it isn't, man. How're you ever gonna get help with anything if you're too afraid of making people worry?"

Nick looked up at him. "I know. You're right."

* * *

Grissom quietly entered Nick's room, immediately wishing Nick's parents weren't there. He cleared his throat. 

Their conversation screeched to a halt as they turned to look at him. "Sorry to interrupt," he said.

"Oh, Mr. Grissom," Jillian Stokes said, standing and smoothing her skirt. "Good to see you."

"You too," he said, smiling a little. "I was hoping to speak to Nick alone for a moment."

"Of course," Judge Stokes said moving to let Grissom move closer to the bed.

Grissom walked over to the bed, taking a seat, as Nick's parents left.

"Hi, Nick," Grissom said as Nick opened his eyes and blinked a few times.

"Hey, Gris."

"I want to talk to you," Grissom began. "I've been thinking about this a lot, and I want to talk to you about how I've been acting toward you these past few months."

"What? Gris, I –" Nick said, struggling to sit up.

"Lie down, Nick. Let me finish." Grissom shifted in his chair, then met Nick's eyes. "When you were newly a CSI, I knew you looked for approval from me. I knew that it was important to you that I thought you were good at your job. And I ignored that."

Nick looked away, eyes downcast.

"I was proud of you, when you stopped looking to me to tell you what was right. When you knew it on your own, and you just did it."

Nick looked up, surprised at his words.

"When you got pulled out of that box…you were scared and confused. You didn't know how to handle it. So you did the only thing that made sense: you reverted back to old behavior from a time when you felt safer."

"I don't –" Nick tried again, but Grissom cut him off.

"I shouldn't have acted annoyed with you, Nick. I should have understood what a difficult thing all of this was for you. I should have realized you needed help and offered it. I'm sorry I didn't."

"I wouldn't have taken it anyway," Nick broke in. "We both know that."

"Why not, Nick?"

"I thought…if I admitted I needed help, then it meant it had really happened. I didn't know what to do about what happened to me," Nick said, tears shining in his eyes, forcing him to look away.

"I know, Nick. I know," Grissom said.

"Why can't I?" Nick asked suddenly.

"Why can't you what?"

"Why can't I ask for help? I know I need it."

"You don't have to ask, Nick. We're right here. We'll help you through this. You don't have to ask."

* * *

Nick awoke to find Warrick staring at him. He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his eyes. He pushed himself into a sitting position, his ribs aching as they were jostled. 

"Hey, 'Rick," he said, beginning to feel unnerved by the intensity of Warrick's gaze.

"You talked about the box," Warrick said, dispensing with the greetings.

"I guess…" Nick said, struggling to understand where Warrick was going with this.

"Tell me something else." Nick raised his eyebrows, surprised at that demand.

"Why?"

"I need to know," Warrick said. "I just…I have to understand." Nick shook his head.

"This…this isn't something you want to understand, bro"

"I heard you, the things you were saying, your hallucinations. I can't…I can't hear that stuff and not…" Warrick trailed off, a hint of desperation in his eyes.

"You sure?" Nick asked, reluctant to say anything.

"Yeah," Warrick said definitely. Nick sank further into his pillows, closing his eyes, feeling a headache coming on.

"I was thinking about Shakespeare."

"What? Why?" Warrick asked, confused.

"Nothing was like it should be. 'Fair is foul and foul is fair.' Everything was backwards."

"What do you mean?"

"I would have given anything to be above ground in the light, yet I wanted the light in the box to be off," Nick said, as an example.

Warrick shifted in his chair, his expression very guilty. "I'm sorry…"

"Quit looking like that. You didn't know," Nick ordered. "Anyways, so then I was thinking about other things that weren't how they seemed. Crane stalking me, but it not being about me. Stuff like that. And then I thought, what if suffocating was like that? What if it just seemed like a quiet, peaceful way to go?" He fell silent, studiously avoiding Warrick's distressed face.

"Why can you talk about it now, when you couldn't before?" Warrick asked suddenly.

Nick stared at his hands, twisting the blanket hard. "I was hallucinating, when I was down there. I saw my own autopsy." He tried to keep the tears from falling, but felt the wetness on his cheeks anyway.

"Nick…"

"I was afraid that all this…being rescued, everything after…I was afraid it was another hallucination. I was scared if I made one wrong move I'd wake up in hell again." He was crying full out, his shoulders shaking, unable to really breathe. "I was afraid I'd be back there and this time I wouldn't get out."

Nick felt Warrick stand next to him, awkwardly squeeze his shoulder. He took in a deep, shuddering breath, then looked into the face of his friend, surprised to see the tears that wet Warrick's face as well.

"What changed?" Warrick asked softly, sitting back down but leaving his hand on Nick's arm.

"Doc said my heart stopped," Nick said, then realized how unrelated that sounded. "I thought I was going to die, in the box. There was a point…It was like I already was gone…I didn't have any hope left. I was going to die." He bit his lip. "Something about it really happening…really being brought back…It was like after months of being dead, I finally woke up and I was alive."


	38. Chapter 38

"Well, Mr. Stokes, I have some good news for you!" Dr. Sharpe's voice sounded cheerfully through his room. Nick glanced at his parents, then at the doctor.

"Yes? What is it?" His mom asked breathlessly. She had always been impatient when receiving good news.

"The infection has responded to the antibiotics! Your fever is gone, the pneumonia has cleared up. I don't see any reason why you can't leave within the next couple of days," she said, smiling widely at him.

"Really?" Nick demanded, almost afraid to believe it.

"Really. As soon as tomorrow morning," she confirmed. "I have to say, Mr. Stokes, I'm surprised. In all honesty, I wasn't sure you'd make it through, but now I'm positive you'll make a full recovery." She smiled one last time, then excused herself to go check on another patient.

Nick sat, frozen in place for a moment, letting the happiness wash over him. It felt warm, like wishes coming true, like hope.

His mother squeezed his hand tightly, smiling at him. "You hear that, baby?"

"Yeah…" he said, grinning. His father clapped him on the shoulder, smiling also.

"Good to hear, Pancho," he said, smiling. "I'm proud of you for pulling through this."

Nick swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "Thanks, Cisco."

Judge Stokes' pager went off and he quickly excused himself to make a call.

"Nick, honey?" his mother asked softly.

"Yeah, Mom?"

"I'd like you to come back to Texas with us." She gripped his hand tightly as his smile faded, a weight settling on his chest. This was a conversation he didn't wish to have.

"W-what?" he stuttered.

"Sweetie, I just think it would be better for you to be closer to your family…maybe get away from some of this stuff?" she suggested gently.

"Mom, I – I can't just leave…" he said, not wanting to hurt her.

"Nicky…you'd be so much better off at home," she said.

"Mom…this is my home. I belong here," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't work this hard to just pick up and leave."

She sighed, and shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes. "You always were so stubborn. Never could get you to see reason."

Nick smiled faintly. "Not much has changed, huh?"

"Nick, you have to promise me something," she said suddenly.

"Anything," he responded sincerely.

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself…do some things for you, not just work."

"Sure, Mom. I promise," he said, smiling reassuringly.

"And another thing…"

"Yeah?"

"I need to hear from you more, honey. If you don't call at least twice a week, I promise you, I'll –"

"I promise," Nick said quickly, not wanting to hear the rest of that sentence. Then he laughed. "And you have to promise me something, too."

"What?"

"Don't worry about me, okay? I think everything's better now."

* * *

"Hey Greggo," Nick greeted happily as Greg entered Nick's room to find Nick talking to his parents. 

"Hey," Greg said, and nodded at his friend's parents. "You look better."

Nick nodded. "Yeah." Greg grinned at him, trying to hide how uncomfortable he was. However, Nick's mother seemed to pick up on it anyway.

"Nick, how about we leave you and Greg alone for a little bit?" She stood and tugged on her husband's arm. "We should probably pack anyway."

They left quickly and Greg took the chair Jillian had vacated. "Pack?"

"Yeah. They gotta get back to Texas, for work." Nick sat up a little more. "So how're things at the lab?"

"Pretty good," Greg said, relieved to be talking about something he knew well. "We have a ton of evidence on your case, we're gonna nail Parras for this." He stopped suddenly, kicking himself and waiting for Nick to freak out.

But contrary to what he would have done in previous weeks, Nick merely nodded. "Good."

"You're – you're okay talking about it?" Greg asked dumbly, surprised.

"Not my favorite topic," Nick admitted. "But… yeah. Yeah, I think I am."

Apparently seeing Greg's confused look, Nick continued. "The last few months have been like a nightmare I couldn't get out of. I don't want the rest of my life to be like that."

Greg nodded. "After that lab explosion…I – I was scared it would happen again."

Nick met his eyes. "But you got past it."

"Yeah, I did. You guys helped me a lot with that," Greg said, smiling a little. "So now we get to help you."

"You already did, man. You already did…"

* * *

"Welcome home, Nick!" Catherine exclaimed as Nick climbed out Warrick's truck. It was fairly early when he was released from the hospital; they must have come straight from work. 

"Thanks," he said, grinning easily. He walked up to his front door, following them inside. They must have found his spare key.

Once inside, he tossed his jacket in the general direction of the chair and walked into the kitchen. "Ya'll want something to drink?" he asked. No one said anything.

He turned to look at them, finding them staring at him apprehensively. "What?"

"Nothing," Sara said quickly, then forced a smile.

"I'm okay, you know. I'm okay being here, even after Parras breaking in. I'll get some better locks or something." He shrugged, and grabbed a bottle of water. "So, do you want something, or not?"

"I'm good," Warrick said, and Grissom shook his head. Catherine said nothing, and Greg was too preoccupied with looking through Nick's video games to even notice the question.

"Okay," Nick said. "Food, then?" He looked through his refrigerator. "On second thought, maybe we had better go out somewhere. I don't think I have anything that isn't about three weeks old."

Warrick laughed. "Well, I think we all know where we're going," he said, leading the way.

Once they arrived at the diner the CSIs frequented, Nick and Warrick commandeered a few tables, shoving them together to form a space big enough to seat all of them. They walked up to the counter and placed their orders, then returned to their table.

The conversation was light; they made fun of Greg, laughed at Hodges' latest antics, poked fun at Grissom and his overly healthy breakfast. Nick wolfed down his pancakes, much to the appeasement of his friends who all believed he had gotten too thin. He didn't care much either way, all he knew was that breakfast had never tasted so good.

When they were finished, they left the diner, going their separate ways at the door, each to their own house. Grissom offered to give Nick a ride, as his house was in the same direction.

They sat together in Grissom's car in complete silence for a few minutes, Grissom lost in thought, Nick trying to get up the courage to ask Grissom something.

"Why me?"

"What?" Grissom asked, confused.

"Why did Parras choose me?"

Grissom considered it for a long moment. "I'm not sure, Nick. He had a traumatic childhood. He chose men who visited the Hispanic area of Vegas. But that's all we know about him, really."

Nick nodded. "I guess there are questions that just don't have answers."

Grissom glanced at him. "Some don't."

"I think I'm okay with that."

They rode in silence for a while longer. Finally, when they were almost to Nick's home, he spoke.

"Gris?"

"Yeah, Nick?"

"I think there's one last thing I have to do, before I can really put all this behind me."


	39. Chapter 39

The building was so large as to be intimidating, the roughness of the cement a little too familiar. Nevertheless, he continued through the maze of hallways, finally taking a seat in front of a Plexiglas window. Nick closed his eyes. He counted to five, taking deep breaths, before he opened his eyes again.

A small, thin woman sat down across from him. He waved, but his friendly gesture was met only with a glare. He motioned toward the phone, picked it up, his hand slipping on the hard plastic. He waited, and after a long moment, she wrapped her hand around the phone on her side, and held it to her ear.

"You the one?" The words were flat, almost emotionless; she wasn't surprised to see him.

He smiled a little, more out of nervousness than anything. "Yeah." The word stuck and he was forced to clear his throat. "Yeah, back at you."

She didn't look like she could be the daughter of someone who had caused him so much pain. If he had seen her on the street, he wouldn't have known who she was.

"What do you want me to say? I'm sorry?" Kelly Gordon demanded roughly, the anger in her voice surprising him.

"No, you didn't do anything to me." He briefly wondered why he was even there. She _hadn't_ done anything to him. Why did he have to tell her? "And what your dad did, I…I guess it's 'cause he loves you so much."

She hung up the phone quickly, unwilling to hear his words. _That's why. That's why I have to tell her_.

"Hey, Kelly. Kelly," he said, tears making their way into his voice. He needed to tell her, he needed this. He fought to keep it together. "Pick it up," he motioned at the phone.

She slowly picked it up, held it back to her ear. Nick leaned forward, intent on connecting with her, even through the Plexiglas wall that separated them, imprisoned her, just as it had trapped him.

"In a few years…when you get out of here…" He paused for a long moment. "Don't take it with you." _There._

"That's it?" she said, the words sharp.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's it." She hung up the phone and turned away from him. He took a deep breath.

"That's it," he said again, still holding the phone, though the connection with the person he needed to help was gone. That was it. It was the key, to all of it.

He dropped the phone back into the cradle, rubbed at his nose. "That's it."

He stood to leave, winding his way out of the cement and glass prison, barely noticing the guard leading him, lost in thought.

Nick had spent weeks of his life thinking about this, mulling it over. He was wrong before. Experiences weren't what made a person. What made a person was what they did with the experiences. To accept what had happened but to still control your own life, to gain the courage to let it go…that was what made a person.

As he stepped out into the brilliant light from the dimly lit prison, he felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders, the feeling of letting it go. He smiled, looking at the beautiful blue sky, the sunlight glinting off the parked cars, the light of the day filling him, the fear and loneliness he had felt far behind him in the dark prison.

Nick wasn't taking it with him.

The End

**A/N:** Thanks so much to all of you for reading and reviewing! I promise I'll start another story at some point, but as my life gets a bit more hectic this month, I may only be posting one shots, just trying my hand at them. But I'll be back soon with new long story ideas. :)


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